


Star Wars: Autonomous

by ChaotiCookie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crimson Dawn, Death Watch, F/M, Post-Darth Maul: Son of Dathomir, Post-Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Pre-Solo: A Star Wars Story, Pre-Star Wars: Rebels, Science Fiction, Slow Build, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8011528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaotiCookie/pseuds/ChaotiCookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Force manipulates, tests, and decides the fates of every being in the galaxy; but with the very power the Force gave her, Durmónia will use it to escape her fate and not be its pawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

The silence was palpable on her tremored lips. It pierced the air and screamed into her ears to turn away from the heavy presence approaching amidst the fog. Her hand had been resting on the hard chest of her companion to ensure his delicately beating heart was constant. She still had enough strength to heave him over her shoulders and sprint a mile or two away. But the demon approaching was not as fatigued as she and would catch up to them with ease. Help was located leagues away from their location, fighting to their rasping breaths for their leader’s security of mind to focus on the sole mission. The woman took his dual-colored hand into hers and pressed her lips against them. Their tremors ceased.

A fierce light, brimmed with fervor, shined in her sunset eyes. With a final squeeze of his hand she placed it on the cold earth and reached for a long metal cylinder bulked with grooves and two red buttons. Her other hand reached for one half its size and more delicate in shape on her hip. She held them tightly by her sides and took slow steps.

Raspy breaths breathing in and out projected from a vent and echoed across the barren, gray land. The woman hasn’t caught a visual of the figure yet, but the immense pressure of the Force pressed against the very air she breathed and rose the hairs on her skin. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the Force surrounding her to lighten the pressure and make the vicinity her own; she refused to be bullied before the battle even begun. The tense wrinkles on her eyebrows smoothed when she maintained control of her emotions and surroundings. A small whirl of dust lifted around her—the only visible reaction of her using the Force.

_You are not ready to confront him._

“I must be ready. Right now.”

A thin red streak of light elongated within the veil of fog before her. The rasping inhalation and exhales of steady breaths grew ever more present.

_Durmonia, take him and run._

The voices echoed from the top of her head, down to the soles of her feet. Souls compressed into one being who shaped the universe, granted gifts, and decided the fate of many. A being no one has full understanding of, and yet they abuse its power for violence and control. Except for one who was cursed to hear and understand its pleas; a slave to its will, but has the access to the universe.

“Afraid your Chosen One will defeat me?”

_That you will kill our Chosen One. You do not have full control of us, yet. Your emotions for him are-“_

“My strength. He will not die here.”

_Once we are in your control, there is nothing we can do to advice you, and he is not conscious to keep you in check._

“I know.”

She pressed the buttons on both lightsabers to release red and yellow blades. The other end of what used to be a dual-blade red lightsaber sputtered blue sparks and died to black.

_Please. He is our hope._

“I know that too.”

A man clad in black from his head, to the end of his fingertips and the tips of his toes, swept past the fog—white wisps furled up from beneath his heavy metal steps and draping cape. Half of his fully encompassed helmet reflected the red brilliance of his saber and his affiliation with the Sith, and exhaling through the triangular vent were his labored breaths.

He extended a rubber hand toward Durmonia’s companion.

“Hand him over, and you will find a better master in me and an ally with the Empire,” he clenched his fist. “You will have more power than you could ever had imagined.”

Durmonia crossed the lightsabers before her—yellow and red engulfed her brown features. “Darth Vader, I have no master. And power means nothing to me.”

“Do not deny your feelings. Listen to it and give into them. If you do not trust me, then trust your emotions.”

“What I feel is something Sith and Jedi have failed to master or denied themselves of.”

Darth Vader put his arm away along with a distant memory of emotions hanging just over the cusp of his hand. He did not take it, and let himself forget the fleeting happiness and pain that went with it.

“He will die, if not by my hands, then by my master’s. His former master.”

“As long as I live, Maul will never have the chance to meet you or Sidious’ blades.”

Vader raised his lightsaber. “Love is a weakness. It will be your death.”

“No. It is a strength. The Force protects us out of love, not for a sense of duty or hate, and it is more powerful than you and your master combined.”

“Let us test that theory.” He swung his lightsaber to the side and strode forward with the purpose to kill.

Durmonia glanced back at Maul. His lips were parted and his chest rose and fell in slow successions. The crown of horns on his head were tipped with blood, and the red and black designs which thoroughly covered his body blended with the blood and soot. For one last time, she needed to see his yellow orbs and feel his emotions swell within her to give her a final dose of determination. But that was only a fantasy. If he saw her standing there, facing an enemy he dreamt of defeating since Sidious cloaked Vader under his mantle—creating the empire his master dreamed of without him—he would seethe with rage, and fill Durmonia with his greed and jealousy. It would be better if he wasn’t conscious at the moment. If she survived the battle, she could handle the consequences with a very alive Maul.

She took a step, ready to sprint; ready to pull the Force down and shroud her with protection.

“Stop.”

It was weak. Slow. Nothing Durmonia expected to spring forth from his mouth. There was only one thing she felt from his words, something she never felt from him before. It trickled down her spine painfully slow, making her stomach clench tight with impatience. It wasn’t what she wanted to feel from him; anything but this. Throw a tantrum, she wanted to scream. Be angry, enraged, jealous!

‘Hate me!’ she thought, ‘But not this. Anything but…’

She did not turn her head. His stare that pierced past her heavy locks of black curls and into her brain would shatter her. He wanted her to say something, anything, but she held her lips shut.

Vader was fast approaching. If she said something now, it could be her final words to him. If not… What was the last thing she said to him? She couldn’t remember. Most likely something curt and stupid to rile his annoyance. That’s a good way to leave a memory—Durmonia being Durmonia.

“So, you finally decided to drop your balls and show fear? Oh, wait. You didn’t have any in the first place.”

That’s it. His annoyance spiked just barely and that was all she needed.

She sprinted to Vader, lightsabers following behind her.

In a final, desperate effort Maul extended his feelings to her; everything he hid from her and wanted her to know. But it did not stop her. She pushed on with a heartwarming grin spread across her face.


	2. ACT I: Soprano

**A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....**

It had been two years since Anakin Skywalker dawned the cape of Darth Vader and conquered the galaxy by Emperor Palpatine’s side, who was also known as Darth Sidious. The Jedi who survived Order 66 continued to diminish as Darth Vader hunted them down and eradicated their history for good.

Meanwhile, after Maul’s crippling loss in the Second Battle of Dathomir against his former master, Darth Sidious, he returned to the underworld with what was left of the Shadow Collective. Building his rage on overruling the Emperor, he began another crime syndicate of his own known as the Crimson Veil by absorbing the lesser gangs into his shadow and becoming one of the most feared organizations in the underworld.

Unbeknownst to these crime lords, Emperor Palpatine had set his next course for eradicating their groups in the Outer Rim—creating his ultimate galaxy where no one could undermine his power.

 

***

  
The belly of a starship glided through the empty black void, and toward a desolate space station on the brink of collapsing on itself due to its long existence since the end of the Old Republic. What was once a beautiful station for military operations became a massive, floating pile of metal that housed over 900,000 lifeforms along with the constant throng of travelers who sought temporary refuge from the Empire; exactly the kind of place the pilot of the battered starship needed. As if hobbling with its last bit of strength, it continued in silence reaching for a final salvation.

  
-

The Abolition was a space station in the Outer Rim which outlasted centuries of wars and peace. Once, a haven for Sith then Jedi, and a secret base for the Republic in the Clone Wars. It’s current purpose only festers some of the most despicable beings across the galaxy: bounty hunters, gamblers, slave traders. Finding any good soul is as hard as searching for a wall without rust, grease, and blood stains. The atmosphere was just barely filtered enough to breathe without it being on toxic levels, and the lighting dim as if the residents were creatures who despised bright, open areas like roaches. But, the place was without laws and out of the Empire’s reach, which was why Durmonia sought shelter among the outlaws; becoming one with their unlawful ways and poor demeanor. At a second or third glance, anyone would only suspect her of being a lowbred thug with an annoying personality; an impulsive jokester with an impenetrable wall to separate herself from other life forms. Just one of a billion in the galaxy within a greasy hovel, surrounded by customers, workers, steam, and food.

Customers clad in ripped and worn clothing, yelled, or smoked around the rickety tables with equally as rickety chairs. Despite the diner’s disgusting appearance, everyone took spoon fulls of their meal until their plates were licked clean. The single waiter, a class three droid and the cleanest, brightest thing around, rolled on its one wheel to a table and picked up the dishes. In a fit of laughter, a sullastan wailed his arms and spilled his drink all over the droid. Without comment, the droid took the now empty cup the sullastan set down, and rolled away. It made its way past the filled bar to a sliding door where the wonderfully scented steam came from.

Metal clanked, dishes clattered, and chatter among the cooks filled the sweaty hovel where all the magic happened. A knife thinly sliced a long, red potato in a quick succession until it reached the end. The blade moved the slices to the side and moved onto an onion; again, sliced thinly in mere seconds. With the blade and a hand with dark-colored complexion, they scooped up the sliced bits and dropped them in a brewing pot. The same hand took a pinch of red powder from a bowl and sprinkled it into the bubbling brown liquid with lumps of meat.

An ithorian, Tureis, checked a cracked screen with fonts of alien language popping up every 10 minutes or so. The flaps along the sides of his long neck flexed and blew out his native language through the exposed holes.

“I know. It’s almost done.” Durmonia wiped her sweating brow with a towel and checked another pot. The contents of this one was thick, white, and creamy. She dipped a spoon for taste.

Tureis aired out its concern and waved an arm at her.

“Blow your paranoia elsewhere. There’s nowhere else in the galaxy they can afford a gourmet meal, so I’m sure they can wait a couple more minutes.”

With a pound against his chest the ithorian blasted his final words, followed by a definitive finger point at her then to himself. He stomped with his heavy feet to another one of his underlings and smelled their concoction.

Durmonia stirred the contents with a deep frown set in her features. “Right. You the boss.”

An amani pattered his way beside her and loomed his two-meter-tall body over the soup. He took a creamy spoonful of it and moaned his satisfaction while licking a long tongue across his short snout. “I hope there’ll be leftovers to take home tonight.”

“Better in your stomach than those creatures out there who can’t tell the difference between bouillon and bisque.”

“Soup is soup to people who have never seen cheap, good food.”

“It’s a disservice to my talent.”

The amani rolled his yellow eyes; bored of her constant, boastful reminders of her more fulfilling past before the Empire. But hidden behind the galore of food and quick techniques in the kitchen, Zione could feel in the twitch of his tail there was more to the human than what she led on. In fact, the only thing known about her was her love to cook and where she placed her talent in; which were many planets, including the core worlds. She could have led a life of grandeur servicing the Imperials, for what sort of threat could a cook possibly bring to undermine the Emperor’s sovereignty? As far as Zione’s beady eyes could tell, she was capable of much, much more.

“Are you volunteering for the upcoming shockball match?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t you get back to checking on those rolls, Zione?”

“We’ve all cast our bets on whether you’re in or not. And there’s rumor you need the credits.”

The human eyed him with a sideway glance. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Just a couple of us traders: Shysha, Ximale… Kymeri.”

Durmonia grinded her teeth. “I’m going to pluck his eyes out.”

“No good now. He’s gone off on a trade run. Won’t be back until after the shockball tournament.”

The woman clicked her tongue. "Day after tomorrow. What’s the rumor?”

“You’ve been looking for real expensive medicine.”

“That it?”

“Just about.”

Durmonia poured the creamy soup into a bowl and handed it to the waiting droid. “I’ll get you cleaned when you finish this round, Bets.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Móni.” Bets mouth lit as she spoke in a somber tone. She rolled away in a moderately slow pace and did not attempt to avoid any of the staff who nearly tripped over her as they dodged out of her way with food or sharp objects in hand.

“Did the fat lug tell you directly?” she continued.

“No. Came from a secondhand source. But I can find out the details,” his grin extended almost to the temples of his head, “for a price.”

She faced him with a fist on her hip. “Let’s do this.”

“Maridun beetle with chian berry sauce and sliced dithe.”

“I assume you have the ingredients since it’s from your world.”

“All yours. Just make a bunch. And like always, it’s gotta be good for the deal to fall through.”

“You bet your tail it’s going to be good.”

Zione hissed a chuckle, but soon the laughter left his smile and transformed into a lopsided smirk. “There’s also another bet going around.”

“How Ximale lost his testicles?”

The amani’s tiny eyes grew twice its size. “What? No. Not that.”

“Huh. Well, don’t keep me in suspense here.”

“It’s about you. Seems like someone’s trying to dig up your past.”

Durmonia paused stir frying a pan with blue onions and purple mushrooms for just the briefest of a second, but it did not get passed Zione unnoticed. As small his eyes may be, they were sharp and embedded into his species’ DNA to catch quick movements when his ancestors went hunting in the swamps of his damp home world.

She laughed and it was forced. “That’s flattering. Who knew a cook and a part-time shockball player got people’s attention? But I hate to break it to you—my life is and was filled with food. I dream about it, I think about it, I sing about it, and I pray to it. I hope you didn’t bet on anything crazy like me being a Jedi or a Republican pilot or something.”

Zione licked his snout. “It was a tempting bet. But I didn’t place anything.”

“That’s a shame. You could have made something if you bet there was nothing exciting about me, and won’t be found dead in an alley somewhere.”

The amani studied her. Durmonia felt his uneasy gaze. When she looked up, she shook hard with laughter. “It was a joke. A joke.” She punched his arm. “You’re a black market trader, you’re not supposed to be gullible.”

He lifted a hand too large in proportion to his thin body and scratched behind his mushroom-top head. He gave an airy chuckle, “Yeah, you’re right. I think two years without making any heavy deals has dampened my skills a little.”

“Just a little. I think it’s good you’re trying to make an honest living for yourself. It’s challenging, but fun.”

“Speaking of near-retired black market traders. Tell me about this thing with Ximale.”

“You can make real money with this one. It’s gold. Plus, I’m acquainted with some Twi’leks who know who cut it off.”

Zione’s tongue hung out as he made a silent laugh—an indication he’s laughing very hard. “This is going to be good.”

They laughed together and continued doing so even when Tureis blew out some angry notes at them. But neither of them could ignore the wall coming between them. Before, it was thin—transparent even. Now, it’s gotten thicker and dark to the point where they could only see each other’s silhouettes. And without denial it was a wall Durmonia set up around herself. It was impenetrable, durable; something Zione had hoped he had chipped away after these past two-and-a-half years. But as time went on, he felt even further away from her. Each passing day he knew less of her and became more of a stranger; even more so than when they first met.

He watched her bunched up, brown curls on the back of her head bounce as she maneuvered around and chuckled away the remnants of her laugh. Even though it had been two years since he made any notable trade, his skills had far from dampened. He used it every day: watching customers whisper deals to each other; the discreet meetings in dark corners; the ghost hands passing credits or holodisks to one another; and past relations who continue to bribe him for his connections. If anything, his expertise had nearly grown to a level of mastery from observing occurrences afar. And, without a doubt, Durmonia’s offhand “joke” was no joke at all. It was a warning.

-

The ship’s engines sputtered and died before the pilot had the chance to execute a landing procedure. It dropped on the ground in the loading bay area and collided with another docked ship. If it wasn’t already damaged before, the floor became even more so as the ship nearly took it with beneath its belly. Alien workers and droids came around the collision, raising fists and spewing curses in their language or binary beeps. When the bay door opened halfway, smoke seeped out followed by a figure encased in a black cloak. It leaped out from the entrance and made a clean, soundless landing. Without a glance at the mess it created, it continued forward. When it approached the angry ensemble, it silenced the blathering aliens and turned off the beeping droids with a wave of its gloved hand. The aliens stood stupefied and stared at nothing.

The figure observed the docked spacecrafts. Each one was in poor condition and required immense overhaul in every fathomable area possible: crooked wings, rusted engines, and incompetent maintenance. Regrettably, the only way to lift the heaps of trash into space would be the owners themselves--who understood every nook and cranny of their vessel and the expertise to fly it without delay or major setbacks. Even if the figure were to find the ships’ owners, it wouldn’t feel safe flying across the galaxy in them; much less through hyperspace.

A hand waved over the sullustan’s face followed by a sinister male voice, “Where can I find a fit ship?”

Still stuck in a stupor, the sullastan worker responded. “Don’t know. Maybe the black market.”

A growl of disapproval emitted from within the shadowed face. Of course. In a place like this it’s impossible to get anything worthwhile straight from a seller’s hands, and the last thing he wanted to do was waste time bribing the insects who dwelled there, for he was short of it.

“Do you know a dealer who can sell me a craft?”

“No.”

“I know of one.”

The black cowl turned to a rodian. His bulbous obsidian eyes blinked once at the nothing.

“Who can I speak to?”

“Arsenal.”

“Arsenal?”

“An amani who has anything and knows everyone. Hard to contact.”

The figure hummed his curiosity. “Maybe for you.” With a wave of his hand, he sent the two figures flying across the hangar bay, hitting head first against the wall with a resounding and pleasing crack of their skulls. When alarmed voices closed in on the standing male, he blended into the shadows—all traces of him gone.

  
-

A wide fingertip wiped across the metal counter and raised between wide-set eyes of the boss ithorian. He rubbed his fingers together.

By the back exit of the kitchen his staff were lined up, dressed in their civilian clothing and carrying their belongings; waiting in mortifying anticipation to leave. Durmonia gripped the strap of her bag with a finger tapping against her collarbone.

The ithorian placed both hands behind his back and blew out a positive note.

His staff cheered at the dismissal as they exit the kitchen. Without turning, he blew another curt note that had Durmonia stop in her tracks, everyone leaving before her.

“I’ll wait outside.” Bets rolled out.

A soft inhale, then sigh. “Yeah, Boss?”

The ithorian vocalized without turning around. Concern etched in the waves of air, as well as annoyance. Moni scratched her head. “There’s nothing I can do about your cargo mix up. The only active connection I know to the black market is Kymeri… And he’s not entirely trustworthy.”

Tureis waved a hand in dismissal. He finally turned to make eye contact and blew out his annoyance, then in one swift beat turned to anger.

Impressed, Moni replied, “Oh? My help? Has the Empire fallen already?”

Tureis’ air vents went the widest Moni had ever seen since. He slammed a fist on the counter and pointed an accusing finger at her. She raised her hands in defense. “Alright, I’ll cut the jokes. Why don’t you just sell them and try getting the products you wanted with that money?”

After scratching the nape of his wide neck, the head chef wore an expression of concern. Quiet notes blew out.

Moni blew out her own impressed whistle. “No good here huh? I’ve got to say, though—you’re lucky to come across some rare crustaceans. Only those in the core worlds have the luxury to eat it. No one would understand that but you and I, I suppose.”

The ithorian narrowed its black-marble eyes. He adjusted his uniform and forced himself to be composed as if these next few notes were something he was ashamed of. He blew them out.

A beat of silence. Moni blinked without emotion. Then once again with confusion as she repeated the notes in her head. The third, her lids revealed bright orange eyes.

“Yes! I know how to cook them! I can make-”

Tureis stopped her with a hand. He folded two fingers.

“Three dishes. Okay. But I get to pick them?”

He returned his hand behind his back. After a pause, he nodded his head.

Moni refrained from jumping up and down in the ithorian’s presence. “You’re going to be the number one diner in the system. No! The galaxy! If there’s one thing I love about this deadbeat planet are the _affordable_ food. I’ll come to work tomorrow morning with three dishes. You won’t be disappointed.”

She started heading for the exit, ready to start writing down possible recipes that are brewing in her head. The door slid open, she stepped out and it closed behind her. The door opened again.

“Thanks, Boss!” The door slid close again.

Tureis shook his head with a hand on his elongated head.

  
-

With pep in her steps, Durmonia skipped and slid without breaking the enormous grin on her face.

“Finally! After two years, he’s admitted he can’t run the diner without me. It was just a hole in the wall before I came along and rescued it from the brink of destruction. Now it’s going to be twice as popular.”

Bets rolled beside her in silence. Listening to her bursting pride for the past 10 minutes.

“Maybe I should start my own place. It would have to be on a planet, though. I don’t want to serve these delinquents anymore. They don’t deserve to taste my talent.”

“Moni.” Bets called.

“What kind of place would it be? A small place, where only the most exceptional can find.”

“Moni.”

“Simple dishes. Elegant.”

“Moni.”

“What?”

“The point of us coming here was not be known. Seen. Your food could eventually track the attention of Stormtroopers, then officials.”

Moni soured her lips in annoyance. “Way to spoil the mood. It’s not like the Emperor would know.”

“No. But officials answer to Vader, which could possibly lead him to you. They can’t know about your existence.”

“It’s just an old guy with his mouth-breathing apprentice. How bad could it possibly be?”

Bets sighed with disgust.

Moni changed face. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and exhaled through her nose. “Sorry, Bets." She thought of Zione's new revelation: someone was tracking her. She's used to being the source of many topics of conversation, but so are hundreds of other species. Moni wasn't a very interesting person from afar--other than her shockball skills--but what struck as strange was Kymeri's involvement. They were acquaintances, less than that really, and him digging into her issues posed as a problem. Not only for her, but another party as well; one she was visiting right this moment. If he did know something about her, something he shouldn't know, she could be worth a lot of credits. "I think it’s time for a change. This rust bucket is getting to us.”

“I’ve been waiting for those words for over a year.”

Moni laughed. “After the shockball match, I’ll get us a ship and high tail it out of here. Never thought this was going to be a goodbye visit.”

Her ears rang and the air chilled her body, raising the hairs on her arms. She swung her head around and stared at an empty hall with a flickering light barely illuminating the area. The walls creaked from the vibrations of the machines keeping the space station alive. Above her, footsteps crossed from one end of the hall to the next followed by a door sliding open and close. Soft chatter amongst occupants drifted from the adjacent hall, then dispersed into the dark nothingness of the rotten corners of the Abolition. To the naked eye nothing was unusual, but Durmonia’s were wide open; expecting to catch anything remotely out of place. Like dipping a hand in the middle of the ocean, she extended her consciousness through the Force, but immediately retracted.

“Moni. Your heart rate is high.”

“What?” She hadn’t realized how heavy her breaths were. She was practically breathing through her mouth. “I sense something… sinister. Dark. Sith.”

“Vader?”

“No,” Moni confirmed. She cocked her. “He conceals it very well. No one would notice him.”

“A male. What else can you see?”

“Uh…,” Moni stretched out again. “No. No. No more. I promised myself never to use it.”

“This could be serious.”

“He won’t be able to sense me. Come on.”

“Then ask it.” Moni glanced back with rage at the very mention of it. Unperturbed, Bets continued. “If you're going to stay, then by all means let yourself be found. I don't need you to live.”

Moni pondered this. Something was strange. “You think it has something to do with it?”

“I am uncertain.”

“Of course you are.” _Droids can’t feel the Force_ , Moni thought to herself, _their understanding of it are elementary._

“After the shockball tournament, we’re definitely leaving,” Moni continued. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of a moodboard I created that's just a mesh of Maul, Vader, Star Wars references, and images that relate to Moni's appearance, attributes, etc: https://www.pinterest.com/akaiyoukai/star-wars-oc/


	3. Dynamics

In a remote area of a rundown canteen and populated with guests, the cloaked figure was hunched over a holo-booth. He was brief, specific, and hushed. “No, stay in the new coordinates. I’ll find myself a ship here.”

A woman’s voice responded. “We’ll stay in hiding in the meantime, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” he sneered with hate entangled in every word. “Find what you can about that apprentice scum. Next time, we’ll be the ones to strike first.”

“Yes, sir.”

With a press of a button, he ended the transmission. He sat there for a few moments before addressing a dug who had been looking his way since he entered the place. “Do you need something, dug?”

In Huttese, the dug spoke with confidence as he stroked his leathery goatee with his foot. “I couldn’t help but hear of you needing a ship.”

“What of it?” The figure spoke from the shadow of his cowl without a hint of intrigue.

The dug, unperturbed from the brisk response, remained composed. He knew the game all too well, and how to reel in a potential customer who _think_ they are not in need of help. “You’re stranded in an unfamiliar place without friends, connections, or—most importantly—a weapon. The Abolition doesn’t do well with newcomers. It can suck your money dry… or blood. Depends on how you want to play it.”

In the figure’s mind, he watched the dug squirm as it clawed at an invisible hand suffocating its last few breaths. Eyes bulging, blood veins popping out of the skin, and saliva dripping down the corners of its mouth—the final image of a simple creature with no cause, no relative importance to anyone in its life, nor something whose death would matter to anyone. Its life was at the mercy of another who had power beyond that of nearly the entire galaxy. If he willed, the whole Abolition could fall to his feet and become another dry trophy of his underworld conquests. But the Abolition was an important hub for many species and his control would raise flags to the Empire, which was something he could not risk. As it is, the sacred code of anyone who knows of the Abolition do not actually know of it. When they leave their haven, any factual evidence of its existence would be wiped clean from their memories, else there wouldn’t be a home to return to.

When the dug felt his intense stare, he took it as a means of successfully latching onto a victim and continued, “Not far from here is an old friend who takes old ships and builds them new for a fair price. Unfortunately, nothing is new in these parts. I can introduce you, if you’re interested.”

Unfazed from the unabashed lie, the male could not help but extend a wide smirk that would have the dug slink back to whatever slime hole he came from. But the hood’s shadow masked the bloodlust permeating from his body. “Lead the way.”

Mistaking the upbeat tone as one of wishful hope, the dug rubbed his feet together in a gesture of victory. “Follow me, then.”

-

Several levels down the Abolition were the Living Wards where most, if not all, species dwell to sleep or escape the day’s hardships. Although life beats within the flushed metal walls, the ward exhumes nothing but damp desolation. The Abolition’s maintenance was probably the poorest in the galaxy; only twenty of the myriad of broken lights on the ceilings flickered a dim, pale glow over the littered street, and the poor ventilation kept the musty smell at a constant. Most of the odor wafts from the alleys separating the apartments at every block where one could locate aliens creating homes on the wet floors, selling drugs, or loud sex. From the small, rectangular ports on the walls, meant to serve as windows, glowing eyes would often make an appearance to watch someone else’s life crumble. On a lucky day, one could catch a murder happening in their own alley.

Despite its crassness, for Durmónia it was home and soon she would be searching for a new one; whether it’s to another hell hole or living off the wilderness, she couldn’t say. One thing she could be certain of was the Sith’s presence did not settle well in her stomach. If he’s here to obtain a scum sheltering in the Abolition, it meant the vessel no longer served as a haven for those under the scrutiny of the Empire’s eyes. There’s no telling if the Sith would call Imperial troops or Vader himself to ransack the place, discovering her in the process. Then there’s the question if the Sith did know of her existence. Someone had been poking around into her business, trying to dredge up her past, but whether it connected with the Empire or not was debatable. Her dubious past had been up for grabs for some time, but getting into her personal life was what struck the chord of suspicion. Kymeri was a small-time criminal who talked big, whoever the secondhand source was, was the real issue. She could only hope Zione would find the alien, so she could eradicate the rat promptly.

She sighed to herself in the empty hall of her apartment building. The lighting was no better inside, but it worked to shadow old stains on the walls and questionable fluids in the corners. Bets rolled to a stop beside her when Móni came in front of a door with an alien number blinking on the door. A brown hand knocked on it with her knuckles.

A whirring machine grew louder as it came into approach, and the door slid open. Móni dropped her head to make eye contact with a hybrid boy no more than fourteen years in a motorized hoverchair. From his father’s side, the characteristics of a Theelin were apparent from his purple skin, white hair, and small horns protruding from his temples. His blue eyes, though, were inexplicably human. As his toothy grin spread, so did his freckled complexion. “Móni! Bets!”

“Hey, Kyp. How’s the old bat doing?”

“Oh, you know. Batty,” he chuckled. The upper half of his body made a stiff turn when he indicated to the old female Theelin behind him. He moved his chair out of the way to allow Móni and Bets proceed inside.

The putrid scent of the outside seeped away once the door slid closed again with a beeping lock. The colorful plants that adorned the studio created breathable oxygen for its inhabitants and seemingly brought life to a metal dung heap of a station where one would assume could never exist. From the single bedroom/living area to the kitchen and bathroom, hanging gardens decorated every corner and wall with vines, blossoming flowers, and the occasional herb. The mastermind behind such a miracle went to the shriveled Theelin on the futon sewing up a seamless patch on one of Kyp’s shirts.

Móni sat herself down beside the Theelin. “How are you, Granny Nyla?”

Nyla ceased her sewing to acknowledge Móni’s presence with a warming smile and a nod. She continued her activity in silence.

Móni turned to Kyp. “I brought you a present.”

“Really? You really shouldn’t have.” Despite his humbleness, his eyes were bright with intrigue.

From her backpack, she procured four cylinders wrapped in white labels with an alien language written all over it. She set them on Kyp’s lap. His right forearm came down in a limp sort of way to slightly turn one of the cool metal cylinders to get a better reading. As his eyes shifted from side to side their size grew bigger. “This is! This is the medicine! But how?”

Granny Nyla continued her sewing with the same tranquil face when Móni responded, “Scrapped up some money. Beat an alien here and there,” she shrugged.

“Just one costs as much as the rent in this place. How did you afford four!?”

“Patience and resilience.”

Kyp snorted. “You sound like a Jedi. And you’re no Jedi.”

“You got that right.” Móni watched Bets come beside Nyla, who offered a piece of Kyp’s clothing. The droid took it within her round fingers and began sewing.

Kyp took in her downcast gaze. “What’s wrong?”

With a heavy sigh, she bared herself to him the bad news. “Remember when I told you I’m the type of gal who can’t stay in one place for too long?” She watched his questioning brows slant upward with grief. “It’s come to that point.”

“When?” he shot at her.

“Soon.”

“When?” His voice entangled with force as his stiff body leaned forward.

The young woman's soldiers sagged with defeat. “The day after the shockball tournament.”

Kyp’s mouth fell open. “That’s the day after tomorrow!”

Móni nodded her head, taking care to not meet the teen’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Yes? Yes? What does that mean?” If he was physically able to flail his arms in the air, Kyp would be doing so right then. But he didn’t have to perform the gesture for Móni to get the picture of his frustration; his eyes, over expressive face, and slight body language were enough. “Cross my legs for me, please,” he huffed.

Nyla made a gesture to help her grandson, but Móni put up a hand. “I got it.” The old Theelin resumed her sewing as Móni crossed the young boy’s feet to soothe his comfort. Kyp grunted a thanks and the young woman mumbled her welcome.

Another sigh. Móni mentally berated herself from the amount of excess air she had been exhaling this evening. “It’s not safe for me anymore. That extends to not being safe for you and Granny Nyla either.”

The teen narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

Móni gasped a laugh from the deadpan question. If she did do anything to piss someone off, she would be one out of the thousand who owed someone something, or made it to the top of someone’s death list. “Nothing. Look, I can’t say anything because just you knowing is a threat on your life. I can’t take that chance.”

Kyp stared at the cylinders resting on his immobile lap. “You’ve obviously been preparing for this day. Why are you telling me this now?”

Móni’s eyebrows raised. “Actually, it was pure luck the seller had these on stock and…” She trailed off when realization grinded into her skull. Her emotion spiked with anger, but she exhaled through her nose to still it just as quickly as it came. It was planning something and its tactic of manipulation was to use those she cared about—few there were. “And,” she finished with some tension in her voice, “there’s no telling when you would ever see these on the market again. Also, don’t worry about it being cheap knock offs that could kill you. I tested them.”

The hybrid teen deflated a bit—his brows not as close together and his frown not as deep. “I’m sorry, Móni, it’s just… We’ve gotten so used to having you here. Even Bets.”

Bets spoke for the first time since entering. “Nice to know I’m a second thought.”

After a weak chuckle, Kyp settled back to his frown. “Is everything okay? Really.”

Móni ran a hand through her thick curls, calculating information she should or shouldn’t share while also maintaining the truth. “I think an Imperial is aboard the station.” Kyp’s skin turned a lighter shade of purple and if he could sink into his chair he would. Even Nyla stopped sewing and observed the young woman from the corner of her eye; otherwise she kept the same lax appearance. Móni held her hands up in a gesture of defense and apology. “I’m not sure! I only know it’s someone I can’t run into. Most of these types are usually associated with the Empire, but I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.”

Kyp’s normal skin tone slowly returned, his fear completely overtaken by suspicion and curiosity. Granny Nyla, however, kept her eyes on Móni. “Did you kill an Imperial officer?”

“Ha! No. I don’t kill,” she said getting off the futon, a cold sweat forming behind her neck from Nyla’s impressive stare. “Sorry, kid, I can’t answer any more questions. But I promise I’m not leaving you and Nyla alone. I have a friend who is well respected in the Abolition—if you can believe that—and he’ll help out if I ask.”

A blinking red light on a wall planter switched Kyp’s and Móni’s attention. He mumbled an “oh” under his breath and hovered to it. On the arm of his hoverchair, he changed the screen’s settings to connect with the plants’ filtration systems throughout the whole studio. A trail of muttering self-directions poured from mouth as his fingers swiped and pressed his personal console with expertise. Móni observed Kyp with a heavy weight settling on her chest. If she could help it, she would stay with Nyla and her grandson for as long she could, they did manage fine on their own before meeting Móni; albeit she did make their lives much easier. What little money they got came from call girls or boys whose battered clothing Nyla would mend, and every so often Kyp would do system maintenance in other’s apartments. Fiddling with the Abolition’s functions daily, he managed to find its core systems, to his excitement, and promised himself to mend the station piece by piece in the hopes of making a livable environment for species across the galaxy who sought refuge from the Empire.

After a few short moments, the red light turned green. Kyp faced Móni again with hope oozing from his determined face. “If it’s not an Imperial soldier, will you stay?”

This gave Móni pause. As awful as the Abolition was, it was the best place she came across from her ten consecutive years of travel (the worst time was during the Clone Wars). She didn’t need to hunt for food, scrounge for items to sell, ration food and water, or pick up jobs in the kitchen as a prep cook, butcher, or steward—the memory sent shivers down her spine. Here she made friends, gained the respect and admiration from thieves, bounty hunters, and merchants because of her impressive skills at shockball matches. For the first time since her ventures began, she found a place she could remain/tolerate longer than two months, but she could not deny the Sith’s presence. And if he hadn’t shown up? What then? Start her own restaurant with the money of the upcoming shockball tournament (if her team won)?

 _No_ , she thought. _Two and a half years is a long time. Any longer could jeopardize the Abolition’s location, which means Kyp, Nyla, and Zione._ As much as she hated to admit, the Emperor was not someone whose powers should be taken lightly. Any wrong move, and the Force’s ripple would extend to his acute senses; exactly what she wanted to avoid.

Black curls swayed when she shook her head ‘no’. The teen’s frown pained Móni, but it was for his own good. The good of the Abolition. The good of the galaxy. She put her hands on Kyp’s shoulders. “You’re strong and intelligent, Kyp, with an astounding eye for engineering for someone so young. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She hugged his stiff body, but with what little movement he was physically capable of—the bending his of his head and slight raise of his arm—Móni felt what was meant to be a tight embrace. When she backed away, Nyla’s cool stare was still on her. “I’ll be alright Nyla. Always have been,” she gave her widest grin.

This seemed to ease Nyla as she returned to her sewing.

Bets set aside her third mended article of clothing and followed Móni to the door. Without looking back, they exited in silence.

“We could use the money from the tournament, you know?” Bets slid in as they made their way outside again, to their building on the other end of the street. “But you’re not going to keep it, are you?”

A grin made its way across the young woman’s features. “Nope.”

-

In an alley illuminated by a single, fluttering light overhead were bodies of different species mangled in strange positions on the ground. One such species amongst them was the dug who sought a victim in the hooded figure; his tongue hanging out and his eyes permanently bulged out with fear—the only remnant of his final moments. Sitting in the shadows, was the hooded male holding a holo-device emitting full body displays of the corpses’ clienteles aboard the Abolition. He scrolled through and stopped on an amani labeled: Arsenal. A short description scrolled beside him—something about him being out of commission for several years and love for shockball. He threw the device away and left the alley’s sour scent.

Down a few blocks he returned to the bustling bars and entertainment venues when he caught site of something akin to his appearance from the corner of his eye. On a billboard displayed several holographic faces of gang leaders, criminals, and murderers; not to be captured, but to keep the residents wary. One display took after his very hooded look with a description beneath it:

 _"_ _Newcomer. Killed two crew members by unknown means. Last seen in Navin’s Canteen.”_

He disregarded it and moved on to an announcement about a shockball tournament occurring the next day. His yellow eyes shined within his cowl.

In a concealed area behind a bar, strange odors and smoke spews from the ventilations was a discarded robe hung from a rusted pipe. Beyond, a male with a crown of horns stepped into the crowd; exposed, but unknown.

-

The following day, Móni waited in front of the restaurant without a name—a place she worked in for the entirety of her time in the Abolition. Bets was powered off since she didn’t care for waiting and would only complain. On the locked entrance was a sign displayed since the evening before: _“Closed for the shockball tournament”_.

Finally, the ithorian stepped into the empty street and made his way to Móni. Tureis blew from the air holes along his neck and crossed his arms.

“The ingredients and prep were sent to the restaurant’s computers. I’m just here to make a formal resignation.”

As much Tureis would love to have room in his heart to dislike Móni, he didn’t. She was a better cook, had the charm to reel customers in, and a sense of humor to make the most criminal of criminals head turn with laughter. But, he knew this day would come. She made it a point to be honest with him that she was skittish when it came to staying in any one place for too long. He needed a line cook with experience badly at the time, so he didn’t care about the repercussions. A steady stream of air exhaled from his neck all at once—an ithorian’s way of sighing.

“ _You’re_ upset? Think about me. You finally gave me an opportunity to control the menu and now I’m just throwing it away.”

His bulky eyebrows raised when he shrugged his shoulders. A few, non-comital notes blew out afterwards.

“You’re right. Totally my loss,” she grinned. She turned Bets on who scanned her surroundings momentarily before following Móni to the ithorian. She patted Tureis’ shoulder and stalked off. “Thanks for everything.”

The ithorian jutted a finger toward her back and blew a hearty note.

“Of course, we’re going to win. They got me!” she shouted back.

 

On the highest level of the Abolition, beneath a dome of nebulae clouds and stars, was the shockball court, a black rectangle outlined with neon lights color coded by their functions: red for out of bounds, purple for the neutral zone in the center, and one white strip that divided the court. Silence permeated the looming stands when Móni sat down in one of the seats to overlook the court. Some teams gravitated to their respective spaces on the court, practicing with a shockball or talking over strategy, she assumed.

A green foot rose over the seat beside Móni, then another one. Zione slunk into the chair with a grimace of awkwardness where his tail was concerned. He managed to fit it through the broken hole at the base of the backrest. Comfortable, he folded his elongated arms across his chest and slid a hard stare to the woman with wild curls.

“I spoke with Tureis.”

Pretending not to be fazed by his scrutiny, Móni raised her brows with innocence. “Yeah?” He elongated the silence in hopes to make the human squirm, but as always, she was cool under the pressure.

“Those are some difficult recipes. Tureis was on the verge of weeping with horror and gratitude.”

“Knew the old guy was a big softy. Imagine if I was there. He would be crying because I saw him cry,” Móni laughed. It died on her lips when she placed an arm on the backrest to fully face the amani. Her smile faltered into a firm line. “I got your message.”

Zione blinked. “It really isn’t anything to leave the Abolition for. This guy is as petty as they come.” When Móni’s gaze did not falter, he heaved a heavy breath. “Kymeri was being paid to delve into your past by someone associated with a gang who was wiped out a three years back.”

“The gang’s name?” Móni shot before Zione could put another word in.

“The Guiltless.”

Móni’s face solidified into something dark, but it was gone as soon as it came. The reaction made sweat perspire on Zione’s forehead and his hands gripped his knees tighter. He had never seen her features contort that way, or any human. He kept his silence, thinking it was best to let her have the next word; afraid he would poke something to make her features break again.

“I know you know I’ve been helping someone since I’ve been here.” Her voice held no strain and was deafly calm. He nodded his head and made sure to listen. “I knew the kid’s father. He was the one who lead me here in the first place. He saw something he shouldn’t have and it got him killed.” Her eyes flicked to Zione. The orange sparkled with sharpness and all the amani could do was hold his breath. “The gang he was a part of was the Guiltless. I didn’t know someone survived the raid.” She finished in a murmur, the last statement meant more for herself.

The amani flicked his tongue across his snout with careful consideration. His nerves eased, now Móni is more usual self, in a sense; all humor was sucked away. “Why are you telling me this?”

“A favor. And a long one. I want you to watch out for the kid for me.”

Zione cocked his head to the side, intrigued. “That’s something I can do. But what about the mystery guy? From what I gathered, he’s a fighter, which is something I’m not.”

“I’m going to make an announcement of my departure. Since it’s me he wants me, he’ll follow me. Do you know where he is?”

“No. What I was able to discover was his tendency for violence and his name: Ruin.”

The human couldn’t help but snort. “Classic. He plans to ruin me?” She burst at the seams at her own joke, but it only caused Zione to place his forehead in the palm of his hand.

“I don’t think it’s a laughing matter. I thought you go out of your way not to make enemies.”

Móni spoke through some faded chuckles, “I gotta go and see who’s gonna be on my team.”

Zione’s jaw went slack. “You don’t know who you’re playing alongside with? Don’t they give you a roster almost a cycle in advance?”

Móni raised her eyebrows at the same time her shoulders shrugged. “I’m playing with criminals. And the roster changes throughout the cycle. Either because someone dies, gets thrown into prison, in another system, disqualified, and so on and so on,” she waved her hand lazily. “You know shockball here is nothing like the professional sport in the core worlds. It’s what makes it fun, honestly.” She sighed. “I’m going to miss it. And you too,” she punched his shoulder with a grin plastered on her face.

“Well go on, then,” Zione rubbed the shoulder the human punched. “I’ve bet wupiupi and Imperial credits on your team. Don’t let me down, human.”

Móni swung over the railings and landed on the court from a high distance.

“Wait a second. You still owe me for the information!” Zione leaned against the railing.

“I’ll forever be in your debt,” she called back.

Zione slunk back into the chair, his snarl pulled back in disappointment. He was really looking forward to having something cooked from his home planet.

-

In the shadows of the highest part of the stands, where the seats meet the glass dome, wide yellow eyes take in their prey many rows below. A metal limb rested on its counterpart as the male eased into a relaxed position. Now he waits; for the crowd to consume all exit routes, for the matches to begin to serve as a distraction, and for the environment of familiarity to settle around the amani. Patience was a key element from his Master’s training who endured years of working with Jedi to watch them crumble from the inside out, who wasted no detail so his reign over the galaxy would be fulfilled, and who would take every measure to ensure an eternal Empire. Those were years, and all he needed to do now was wait a few hours. He could wait. No. He must wait if he ever wanted to behead a certain apprentice. He drew a deep breath, taking in an imaginary scent of burnt flesh.

Yes. He could wait.


	4. Shockball

Bets surveyed the team in the trashed locker room, if it’s viable to still call it that. Most locker doors had been disassembled or completely removed. Empty drink containers and shockball equipment littered the rusted floor, hardly leaving any walking room without giving a ripped glove a good kick. There were functioning showers once upon a time, but it turned into stalls to sleep in. In her mechanical retinas, the droid considered the squadmates to be less than passable for a bunch of thugs, but Móni was the one to make the call. Before her was a female balosar, nautolan, and zabrak. Then there was a male twi’lek, iktotchi, trandoshan, and human.

“You all look like you’ve seen better suns.” Móni crunched on shards of glass. The balosar’s antennaepalps twitched on top of her skull. She regarded Móni with feigned interest. “Yes, Shysha?”

Shysha whipped back her blue ponytail. “I need this money.”

“Don’t we all?” The twi’lek regarded her with some amusement.

“Jien,” the iktotchi placed a hand on the twi’lek’s orange shoulder. “Didn’t you know? She’s trying to find her place in the galaxy.” He held back a laugh as he spoke, but let it out all out when he finished his sentence.

Shysha, however, was not amused. “Quiet! You overgrown bantha.”

“What did you call me?”

“Come on, Qar-Tan,” Móni stepped between the two of them. “Play nice. Or did you forget how a team works?”

The balosar returned to the crooked bench with an unsatisfied scowl on her face when Qar-Tan held his smirk on her. Móni regarded the three of them with familiarity, since they had been the few recurring members on her everchanging team. Despite their animosity, when they set foot on the court they leave behind their differences in the locker room and focus on the goal they all share: the prize money.

“When has Qar-Tan ever been a team player?” Jien scoffed.

“Since I took that hit from a 100mA ball for you.” The player in question shoved a pointer finger into the twi’lek’s cheek. Jien took his wrist and bent it backwards. “I give! I give!” Content with the iktotchi’s pain, Jien released his hold. Qar-Tan eyed his teammate with a pointed glare as he soothed his wrist.

Móni raised her hands meant to appease the rising tension in the air. “Alright, reunion over. My name’s Durmónia,” she addressed the newcomers. “I’m a captain and my position is invader.”

The nautolan’s bulbous black eyes turned to Móni. In her tentacle hair were silver bangles and one silver cap covering the stub of half a tentacle. A childish grin stretched across her green face. “I’m Naiya! And I play alcove.”

“Yes,” Shysha drawled with mild interest. “I know you. You were on that dug’s team. Why are you here?”

“He was killed yesterday,” Naiya’s smile didn’t falter as she spoke. “I’m just so excited with the opportunity to play alongside one of the best alcoves in the galaxy! And you recognize me. I am so flattered.” She pushed into Shysha’s space—her eyes gleamed with awe. The balosar was neither fazed with embarrassment nor pride, only annoyance crossed her stoic features.

“Do your job and we’ll be fine.”

Naiya clapped softly and quickly to herself, oozing with pent up enthusiasm. “This is going to be great.”

On the far corner of the bench, hunched in an almost recluse position, was the two meter-tall trandoshan. He rubbed his green scaled arm with a trembling hand and his tail twitched every so often. Although his red eyes could scare the life out of a small child, behind them Móni caught a flitter of meekness. His hissing voice rang quiet throughout the room. “Targon. Marksman.”

Qar-Tan snorted a laugh. “You’re the most docile trandoshan I’ve ever met.”

“This is your first tournament, right?” Jien patted his shoulder. “I’ve seen you play some on the streets. As a marksman myself, I can say you’re very good.”

Targon only nodded his head, but they physically watched the weight lift off his sagging shoulders.

“Before you crack another stupid comment to waste time,” Móni shut Qar-Tan’s mouth with a snap. “Let’s finish the rounds.” She nodded to the zabrak who was sprawled over an entire bench taking, what looked like, a nap.

As if she could feel Móni’s stare, she spoke without opening her eyes. “Name’s Pyrene and I play invader.” She absently scratched the top of her bald head full of short horns.

“Oh, good,” Móni piped with a grin. “Another invader. Not like last cycle where it was just the two of us.”

“It’s a wonder we made it to the final rounds,” Qar-Tan sighed, repressing memories of their loss.

“And finally,” Móni turned to where a silhouette of a man was leaning against the wall leading to the exit. Even from where she was, the stench of alcohol and smoke was potent. “The dark and brooding human.”

“You can call me Volsh.” He stepped forward; an older man in his late 40’s with a 5’oclock shadow of salt-and-pepper hair. Despite the stench, he did not talk or carried himself as a drunk. “And I’m an invader as well.”

Móni ignored her intuition setting off alarms as it was overcome by something far more important. “Four invaders!” She set her fists on her hips and extended a toothy grin. “This is gonna be cake.”

As she made her way to the exit, Bets handed her insulated gloves. The fabric compressed snugly around and between her fingers to make the perfect fit for her hands and her hands alone; as expected from Kyp who designed every thread, padding, and cybernetics from scratch. Putting them on triggered a shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins and the grin turned into a satisfied smirk. “Let’s go team.”

-

Zione remained where he was when Móni left him. He enjoyed watching the pre-game warmups to get a sense of the teams’ abilities—mainly to compare them with Móni’s. Last cycle he cringed from the poor management, for Móni’s team wasn’t the only one who suffered Palpatine’s crackdown on the Outer Rims. The newly allotted Stormtroopers had taken siege of weapon and armour depots, storages filled with unlicensed medicine and drugs, hidden outposts on planets selling parts from the Clone Wars—everything was going down a black hole with no way of escape. The amani eyed the female Hutt perched in an open balcony on the opposite side of the court across from where he was; soaking in her profit below. As the director of the Abolition’s shockball tournament, she oversaw the players’ assignment to teams via an algorithm she invented to match them based on skills, positions, age, and species. She was also in charge of the prize money and wagers, of course. The Hutt also felt the repercussions of Palpatine’s lashes, for the sudden death of bulks of players put a stint to the crowd’s gambles, and teams were mismatched horribly. He could see things have returned to some normalcy on some level in the current cycle, but for how long he wondered.

At a steady rate, the stands begun to fill with bodies and noise as the start of the first match was on approach. On the court Zione caught movement of bunched up curls and an arm swiftly leaping to catch a shockball in midflight. He assessed the team forming around Móni as her lips moved with a tinge of amusement curved at their corners. She seemed confident with her team, even if they had only known each other for a whole forty-five minutes. The amani could only hope they were worth his credits.

Around him, the seats filled and the court cleared. The lights over the audience dimmed so the colorful array of lines on the black court were the most luminous element within the stadium, and induced an outbreak of roaring cheers from the shockball fans. Where the Hutt was located, a massive screen displayed above her balcony listed images and names of the teams’ captains and their players. Then flying in on a repulsorpod and illuminated by a singular spotlight was a mon calamari with his arms outstretched to the audience.

“ **Welcome to the Abolition’s 15th shockball tournament!** ” his voice echoed across the stadium, insinuating another boom of cheers from the crowd. Zione slid a sideways glance to the figure beside him who neither clapped nor, nor howled, nor moved an inch since the lights dimmed. His arms were crossed over his slightly exposed chest which was red with black markings. When his narrow eyes moved up to the face, he processed the features in the span of one second: a male zabrak with the same red and black designs over his face and hairless head, and bright yellow eyes that were examining him in return.

Zione reverted his focus to the screen which was randomizing the selection for the first two contestants. The mon calamari talked some bravado to rile the stands, but the amani blocked out the noise as his mind raced with theories on the death-gripping glare the zabrak gave him. _He knows who I am_ , he thought, _and he wants something_. His shoulders sagged from wear and a tinge of annoyance blew out from his nostrils. He seriously thought the Abolition received the memo of his retirement; even when few discovered his identity and came to him for advice it was through comm channels—never in person—out of some respect. This “meet up” must be due to desperation and time. Not that he cared. But the pure aura of annoyance mixed with hatred seeped from the zabrak’s pores, and those were usually a bad combination that lead to anger then potential violence. And Zione was not a violent individual. For the moment, he opted to ignore and wait, because he’d rather enjoy the tournament for as long the zabrak would allow, and there was a low probability for violence given the massive amount of witnesses… he hoped.

Displayed on the holoscreen were the first two contestants: the first team’s captain was a female togruta with a horrible scowl and the second was Móni with her usual grin.

“ **What a treat! The most fearsome females in the galaxy face off to open the tournament!** ” The mon calamari boomed. “ **We all know Yesinda to be relentless, gruesome even. Remember her breaking the wings of that toydarian captain?** ” The stadium roared with laughter at the relishing memory. “ **And the agile Móni with endless stamina. We all remember the time she held an entire match by herself against a full team and won!** ” Another roar from the crowd ensued. Zione clapped with enthusiasm, and, of course, the zabrak hadn’t moved a finger to show any interest.

Lights illuminated the team’s entrance when they stepped onto the court. On the holoscreen it played in real time Yesinda, the togruta, leading her team. She did not wave or smile at the crowd’s chants like her team did. Her focus was only on the opponent who gave a lopsided grin.

-

Móni approached the white center line, or the neutral zone when in play. Along the opposite side, Yesinda’s team lined up with her in the center; face to face with the human female.

“Wipe that disgusting smirk off your face!” She spat. The orange tint of her skin turned a darker shade along her neck.

“Is it distracting?” Móni asked with as much genuine interest she could muster. On her right, Naiya muffled her giggle.

“It’s annoying.”

This only widened the smirk causing a growl to rumble from the torguta’s throat. “Careful now. Wouldn’t want that temper of yours to short circuit. Again.”

Yesinda’s spine curled like a feline as if prepared to lunge for an attack. The mon calamari descended to the court and hovered at the far end of the lineup where Qar-Tan was opposite of a male besalisk who had a stale stench given how the iktotchi wrinkled his nose with a grimace. “Settle down you miscreants or did you forget the rules already? No physical contact before or during the matches unless you want to be shocked to unconsciousness.” When the torgruta’s offensive stance eased, he continued. “Out of bounds you get shocked. Passing the neutral zone to the opponent’s side here, shocked. Throwing a shockball while in the neutral zone, shocked. Striking a referee, shocked. Any questions?”

Móni raised a hand, which caused the mon calamari to roll his buggy brown eyes on impulse. “This better be a serious question or I’ll have you shocked right then and there.”

She lowered her hand with a disappointed pout.

The stands shook with stomps and cheers from impatience, and the mon calamari continued. “We’ll skip the hand shake since last time one of you scoundrels sabotaged someone’s gloves. Get to your positions. Wait for the Hutt’s signal or else-”

“We’ll get shocked. Great. Break!” Móni clapped then turned her back to the seething mon calamari. Flying into the stadium were two referees on beaten and blackened repulsorpods. They circled around the teams watching for anything amiss before the match start.

“The besalisk is going to be a problem,” Qar-Tan grumbled. “He’s huge! And has four arms. That’s like two players in one.”

Jien hummed his interest. “An invader no less.”

Shysha came up beside Móni and spoke in her neutral tone. “They only have one substitute.”

“Yesinda is someone who doesn’t care about risks,” Móni spoke to the circle the team formed on the opposite end of the court. “She probably won’t have a third invader, which means two substitutes like us.”

“This is going to be a tough match,” Pyrene yawned. “I’ve seen this besalisk at play before. He’s agile and jumps like a monkey-lizard. Kind of annoying, really.” She stumbled forward from a hard pat against her back.

“Guess who’s going to be in our startup?” Móni grinned. “Qar-Tan. Shysha. Naiya. Targon. Get in position. Jien, as usual, give me signs for anything suspicious.” Jien nodded and went his way with Volsh to the queue box outside the court’s sideline.

“One minute!” A referee shouted from overhead. Both teams lined up behind their respective attack line—three meters from the neutral zone. Móni assessed the other team: a nikto, chagrian, weequay, two humans (as Móni expected were queued), and the besalisk. Yesinda too took in her opponents, but with a piercing glare raking over their gloves, uniforms, and feet; finding anything out of place that could sabotage the game. Móni knew the togruta had something up _her_ sleeves, but found the search moot, reveling a surprise challenge.

“Targon. Qar-Tan. Fall back to your positions at the Rush,” Móni commanded. The two nodded without comment.

For the final seconds, every team member looked up at the female Hutt who appeared impervious to the audience’s energy, and uninterested in the male and females below her. When she raised a ridiculously small arm in proportion to her large, sluggish body, every eye stared in anticipation at the center line. No one watched, but felt that thin arm fall on command for the match start. When eight ports of three different sizes opened along the center line, the tensed muscles and short breaths pulsed the court to life. Senses turned acute and gloved hands twitch with impatience. No one noticed, but even the stadium had gone silent. When the balls shot up and the teams sprinted toward them, noise reverberated throughout the court so loud, Móni felt the tremors beneath her feet and could barely hear her own short puffs of breaths.

Móni led the charge as the fastest among her team, but heard the soft giggles of Naiya close behind. Yesinda led her own charge; her deep scowl of disgust almost made Móni want to laugh, but she held it in for the sake of not having the togruta turn violent at the start of the match. She set her sunset eyes on the largest shockballs hovering in place on opposite ends. She pushed her legs further and darted to the left. Her hand reached the first shockball and a soft jolt of vibrations coursed through her arm, but the gloves muffled the worst of the ball’s shock. “Qar-Tan!” She threw it back without looking for his location.

“ **Móni made first contact!** ” The mon calamari narrated. “ **And she made an effortless pass of the 100mA ball to Qar-Tan.** ”

Yesinda’s eye twitched and lunged for the other 100mA ball. Móni back flipped then summersaulted in the air right at the ball’s spot. Both their hands grasped onto it and the battle turned into a dominance of strength. “One of us should let go else the refs will shock us both,” Móni smirked.

“The only one letting go here is you!”

“ **Leave it to Móni to make a circus out of the sport. It’s these tricks that made her one of the highest bidders in the tournament.** ”

A small shockball struck Yesinda’s arm and she pulled back with a grunt of pain from the shock. Her icy eyes contained malice when they flickered to her attacker, but she contorted her emotions to submission and settled for the mid-sized ball.

“Nice one, Naiya!” Móni called when she tossed her ball back to Targon over her shoulder. “Get to position.” From behind the attack line, Naiya responded with a mock solute and ran backwards keeping tabs on the other team. Shysha ran back too with a small ball in hand and Pyrene with none. “The besalisk got you beat already?” Móni hopped backwards behind the attack line.

The zabrak stretched her arm across her chest. “Nearly took my arm with him.”

“Not to worry. We got the big guns to take the beast down.” Everyone got into position the moment they retreated behind the attack line. Shysha took the right back corner and Naiya the back left. They were a few steps above Targon who was placed in the center back. Qar-Tan was in the center, covering Targon, and Pyrene and Móni at the attack line. The opponent before them did the same, however they had no one in the center to block their nikto markswoman. “Yesinda bet a lot of credits on the big guy to carry the team,” the woman grinned. “It’s gonna hurt her.” Móni flashed five fingers behind her back: the enemy had five shockballs.

Yesinda did not waste a moment to quench her revenge and beamed a medium ball at Naiya. The nautolan exceeded Móni’s expectation to dodge and caught it with both her hands. She winced with pain, but held onto the ball.

“ **Amazing reflexes from Naiya! She barely had time to notice the 30mA ball, which Yesinda perfectly directed at her face.** ”

“It’s up by a few volts,” she said grinding her teeth together.

“A few?” Qar-Tan gaped. “You’re holding at least 120mA if you’re hurtin'.”

“Of course, she rigged the balls… Shysha,” Móni called. Without turning her gaze away from her opponents, she caught the small, 11mA ball that landed in the palm of her hand. The markswoman shot a 30mA with an extremely accurate and high strung arm. Móni bent back and felt the ball’s speed rush over her face. Behind her, Qar-Tan called Pyrene and made a quick pass of the 100mA ball to her. He grunted when he captured the ball; its voltage also raised. Yesinda was a clever cheat, but she wasn’t clever enough to create something on her own to change a shockball’s voltage. There was someone on her team who could rig them with just a touch, and she suspected it happened during the Rush. Her eyes fluttered to the queue box where Jien made subtle hand signs beneath his crossed arms; three fingers for alcove, then one finger for left corner. From the attack line, she jumped high in the air, her arm swung back prepared to spear the ball right at the chagrian alcove.

“Oret!” Yesinda called the besalisk with a subtle raise of panic mixed with rage. The besalisk winded up a massive arm aimed at Móni. Some quick exchange occurred behind the airborne human, and when Oret shot a perfect line at her, another 30mA ball intercepted it before it hit its target. From the collision one ball flew out of bounds, and another landed right at the edge of the neutral zone on Yesinda’s side. Móni darted the ball at the alcove’s hand who raised it with the intent of catching it, but the force of the ball’s speed bent the chargrian’s fingers back with a crack.

A howl of pain filled the court along with an immense roar of pleasure from the audience, but no one stopped to take note of the alien’s pain or the court shocking him. He fell to the floor from the abuse his body took and held up a fist in the air. Yesinda whirled at him and screamed, “Put your fist back down. You got what you deserved for thinking you could catch it.” The chargrian lowered his arm with reluctance and a threatening glare that could have outmatched his captain’s, but Yesinda ignored him. She stepped above the attack line to go for the solitary 30mA ball, but Qar-Tan threatened her with a raised arm and kept her at bay.

“ **Móni rendered their alcove to near uselessness with a brutal tactic! And because he intended to catch the shockball, but couldn’t he’d been shocked by 15mA volts.** ”

Pyrene took advantage of the besalisk’s stunned gaze connected her shockball to his right shoulder, the shock stunning him to his knees.

Móni landed right before the center line and rolled out of another throw from the markswoman. Shysha scooped the 11mA with a grunt of pain then saw quick movement, “Look out!”

The besalisk threw the 100mA ball that struck him at Móni. She caught it with a grunt of effort, doing her best not to let it touch her body. The force of the throw skidded her back several inches and when she looked above the ball’s worn top, Yesinda’s eyes gleamed with victory when she aimed her 11mA ball at Móni.

Pyrene ran between Móni and caught the ball with a yelp of pain. She dropped it and the court shocked her into unconsciousness.

“ **Oh! Looks like Pyrene’s arms gave out and had to drop the ball. She couldn’t handle the court’s shock either. Yesinda got the first Comatose player of the match!** ”

The referee’s repulsorpod extended an arm with three pincers to lift Pyrene off the court, and Volsh immediately took her place. At the time, the chargrian raised his good fist and responded to Yesinda’s murderous look with a scowl. The referee flew over to him and waved a lazy consent.

“ **One of Yesinda’s alcoves forfeits making the match tied! I don’t blame him. He’s taken quite a beating. And replacing him is one of the humans. No? Both humans are on the court! Seems Yesinda wants to get this match over with.** ”

Qar-Tan came up to the attack line and performed an underhand pitch at the other alcove’s feet. The weequay crouched to let it bounce off the palm of his hand and caught it. Qar-Tan clicked his tongue in irritation, “That one’s skilled.”

Without a beat of hesitation when Pyrene was lifted, Móni jumped back behind the attack line. “Targon! At the same time!” Without a hitch, Naiya passed Targon the 100mA ball he exchanged with her earlier for the 30mA, and aimed at the besalisk. After his precise shot to the besalisk’s face, Móni held back a few seconds to raise confusion and aimed for the feet. But with his upper right arm and lower left one, he caught both seamlessly. But the human did not waste a second after her first throw.

Móni rolled under a 30mA the weequay’s threw her way and seized the 11mA ball Pyrene dropped. She could barely raise herself off the floor from the unexpected high voltage coursing through her arms. The chargrian outdid himself to forfeit without suffering the repercussions of Yesinda’s blood thirsty temper. It was nearly 200mA and the whole of Yesinda’s team must have had gloves to handle such high voltages. Móni grounded her teeth together and forced her legs back behind the attack line. She knew the referees had caught on to the rigged match, but they did nothing about it—they never did. Their dented repulsorpods were damaged for reasons of interference, and not from the teams; the group they feared to anger was the audience who gambled for unfair matches.

“Shysha!” Móni grunted. “After me.”

With gritted teeth and strained muscles, Móni forced the ball’s pressure away from her hand. The moment the last fingertip rolled off the ball, Yesinda sprinted to the stagnant 30mA on the neutral zone. Shysha watched the torguta sweep the ball, but as if her brain couldn’t calculate a last-minute decision, her arm’s point of interest continued to direct toward the massive brute.

" **What is she thinking? She just loaded the opponent's weapon with four shockballs!** "

A quick glance to the sidelines, Móni saw the 30mA that went out of bounds had disappeared and a port opened on the neutral line. “Volsh! When I say go!” From within the neutral zone, Yesinda had her back turned to pass the ball, and did not notice the 30mA ball shoot up from its port and Móni taking it. With the besalisk’s arms full of shockballs he prepped two arms to strike the second Móni stepped out of the neutral zone.

“Now!” With expectation and trust she turned her gaze away from Volsh to beam a pass at Targon. The moment his clawed fingers grasped the ball, his arm glided to the side and with the flick of his wrist shot at the over encumbered besalisk. But Oret rolled out of the Targan’s precise shot and raised his arms for the kill.

Something was wrong. Móni sensed it; traced down her spine to the soles her feet, something was amiss. No one was moving. All eyes were at a singular point on the court and the crowd no longer chanted their names, but rose in a flurry of murmurs. Behind her, Yesinda gave a throaty chuckle filled with insult and mockery. Why didn’t she listen to her instincts? They were never wrong.

 _Because my instincts are a curse. A gift from **it**_. So, she refused to listen to it. To rebel against the greatest power in the galaxy; universe even.

Volsh’s impassive face twisted to one of wicked delight. His black teeth showed and the once impassive gray eyes gleamed with victory. When she looked straight at the man, she sensed familiarity from long ago, and whatever it was he was a minor role in it—a fly on the wall. His arm was slung back and aimed right at his captain. Mounted on the shockball was a blinking red light. “The Second Brother sends his regards,” his spoke in a whisper, meant for her alone.

When the ball came towards her at inhuman speed she heard Qar-Tan’s, Jien’s, and Shysha’s fast footsteps and their labored breaths. Panic clung to Móni, something she hadn’t felt in years. The fear of another’s life over her own, and how she had no control over the events to transpire then and many more afterwards. All because her fate was tied down and linked to those close to her. She hated it. She hated to feel panic, to feel rage, to feel nothing. Untrained emotions whirled within her as they battled against each other. What was the right thing to feel? She considered not feeling and being numb, but it didn’t feel right; it never felt right not to feel. Then she turned to rage, but it was a tiring emotion that made her annoyed at herself; hating things she knew she didn’t hate or deserved it. Her breaths grew deep. Whispers of many voices and languages combined into one echoed in her skull, commanding her to _focus_. _Stay calm_. The pressure of many was immense and forced a crack in her resolve to never use it again.

She gathered the force within her core and felt its power flow throughout her body. The sensation was limitless and powerful. She could feel the emotions of everyone in the stadium, hear their whispered thoughts, and the sith sitting amongst them. A surge of another force wielder came across her, but she did not have time to focus on it or of the hoard of marching feet inside the Abolition. A loud and breathless voice in the crowd confirmed their presence, “The Empire! They found us!” Fear and panic rose in waves around Móni and she lost herself within the sea of hopelessness. Only one thought beat within her: _save them_.

All at once, she force pushed everyone, including Yesinda’s team, away from the bomb’s vicinity and sent the shockball back at Volsh. Before Móni realized what she’d done, before the man could respond with a shocked reaction, his body was blown to pieces. “No!” Anguish clenched her guts from the pieces of flesh and torn limbs decorating the court and dyed with sticky, crimson liquid. But there was no time to succumb to self-loathing and consider what she could had done. Faceless soldiers in snow white armour marched into the stadium with their blaster rifles raised.

“You’re all under arrest for crimes against the Empire!”

-

Seven Minutes Earlier

The force wielder in the stands felt the amani’s calmness… and ignorance after the brevity of their contact; his presence ignored by Arsenal’s fixed focus on the human female who spoke with him earlier. He’s skilled at maintaining his emotions, the zabrak noted, and most likely accustomed to threats, but he never faced true fear; not from a sith.

He spoke under his breath, aware of the specie’s acute sense of hearing and sight. “I understand you’re the man to talk to for functional items.”

Aresenal only blinked, feigning his singular focus. This was not an issue. He knew he was listening. “Are you close with the one they call Durmónia? She’s very skilled.” And she was. Her flexibility and reflexes were above average for a human. Almost as if she saw things before they came. He did not have time to speculate, nor follow wherever his suspicions led. He needed a ship and fast. A small wave of vibrations in the air around him put his senses on alert that someone was fast on approach. He bared his teeth into a snarl, when he recognized the being coming towards them. This action seemed to put the amani on edge from the way his tail stiffened.

“Judging from your look, you care deeply for this human.”

“She’s the last person you want to get involved with,” Arsenal murmured through a clenched jaw.

The zabrak composed his twitching lips, but his eyes did not betray how he trapped his prey in his snare. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” this time the amani faced the zabrak and was unfazed by the violence lurking beneath the yellow eyes, as if he had faced many like them before. “Some say she’s a Jedi.”

Another twitch of the lips, but this time was to refrain from displaying his disgust. _Is she who they’re coming for?_ That would mean his escape would be much easier than he anticipated if their attentions were on her. It also relieved the prickling qualms down his spine. And if she was a Jedi, it only made things simpler. “Really? Have Jedi fallen so low that they play these barbaric games for money? And for themselves no less.” At this, the amani narrowed it its eyes. He touched a nerve. “Or the money is meant for someone else. Someone important?”

“Careful, Nightbrother. I don’t care if you dig into my bloody past, but don’t go into someone else’s. I’m the one you’re trying to make a deal with, not her.”

The stands roared with applause and drowned out Arsenal’s desperate chokes from an invisible grasp on his long neck. There was a hot flash of bright yellow anger the moment ‘Nightbrother’ was uttered, and the red rims around them burned deeper and spread further across the whites of his eyes. He bared his clenched teeth when he spoke, “Know who you’re speaking to, merchant,” he spat. “I lead the Crimson Veil and if you value your or the woman’s life, then I suggest you relent to give me what I want. Tell me where you keep your ships, and I may consider letting you live.”

Though life was trapped in his lungs, the amani did not quake with fear and it deepened the zabrak’s rage, tightening his grip; uncaring whether the creature before him lived or died. It was only when a voice sucked the boisterous clamor from the crowd did his prey tremble.

“The Empire! They found us!”

Panic raised in waves and in the center, a turbulent wind of emotions the sith never felt before. He loosened his grip from the amani, struck with wonder from a concentrated mass of the force on the court. It was unlike anything he ever felt before as if the force was no longer an impalpable body, but tangible. He could feel it there: beating, pulsing, breathing. The crowd stood up around him, blocking his view of the court when a burst of incredible strength shook the very air around him. He blinked, in a daze from its intensity and considered if it came from the supposed female Jedi.

Marching into the stadium were his old master’s battalion of clone soldiers dawned with new armour, reflecting their allegiance to the Galactic Empire. Their shouts reeled him back to the amani who struggled to escape through the flood of bodies. He extended his hand and force pulled Arsenal’s thick neck to his stone grip. “If you tell me where your ships are, then I will spare your friend’s location to the Empire, unless you wish for her to die under the Emperor’s chief enforcer.”

Then he found what he sought in those tiny eyes: fear.


	5. Dead is Dead

“Durmónia.”

_I know that voice. From long ago. A distant memory of a life forgotten. A life taken from me._

It was soft. Filled with love. Nurturing. An image of a woman with curls as black as space. Her eyes sparkled like the stars. Her bronze skin was soft when she wrapped her protective arms around a small child. Her painted lips tracked the round face with kisses. Her scent was floral like the bright red Devaron flowers that adorned her hair. Her breasts carried the strong beats of her heart and where the child would rest her head to listen.

“Durmónia.”

The song to lull the child to sleep became stern. There was an edge of fear, but was masked by the woman’s façade of determination.

“Durmónia!”

Her scream echoed across a landscape with black sand and gray skies. The bronze skin was bruised and scratched. Blood mixed with sweat and her curls lost their spring.

Her bleeding lips moved, but Móni forgot what was said. She couldn’t recall if it was something important, only they were meant to push her away. It was then, they both knew, they would never feel each other’s love again.

“Mother.” The foreign word stumbled out of her mouth in a murmur. And it wasn’t her mother calling her name, but Naiya. Her large black eyes filled her vision when green hands shook her body back to the chaos. Red bolts crisscrossed across the stadium from Stormtroopers and the rabble who fought back.

“Durmónia, snap out of it!” The nautolan fretted over her captain’s well-being. When Móni’s gaze locked on Naiya and not through her, she released her tense grip. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the heck outta here.”

Móni’s body shook from the reverie and allowed the circumstances to ease away the guilt wanting to ebb its way into her emotions. She blinked at Naiya who did not seem affected by Volsh’s unnecessary end, and found a bigger concern with the white soldiers. “Does Palpatine give clones the same rights as humans?”

“What?”

“If not, we could pay them with the prize money and offer to fight alongside them for equal rights.”

Naiya chuckled and inclined her head to the empty balcony above. “Looks like the Hutt booked it to secure her money.”

From both sides of the court were groans as the players pushed themselves off the floor and rubbed the back of their heads from being smacked back against the wall. “Let’s get the team and follow the Hutt. We’re going to get that prize money.”

A wide grin showed pearl white teeth across Naiya’s green features. “And beat Yesinda to the punch.”

The togruta was the first on her feet and pointing to the Hutt’s balcony while kicking her team to attention. Móni scoffed. “Sure. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Now that we have a Jedi on our side.”

Móni whirled at her teammate with ferocity bright in her eyes. “I am not a Jedi,” she spat.

Taken aback by the unexpected reaction, the smirk from the comment faded from Naiya’s lips and replaced with a firm line as her breaths turned short towards her captain. She took a step back for safe measure when memories flooded her judgement of old tales her grandmother used to share when she was a child. Móni’s orange eyes weren’t far off from how her grandma would describe the powerful Force users who struck down their enemies with an element meant only for the skies to wield. Not even the Jedi had the ability to use such a force.

A bolt charred the space between the glaring females. “All of you stay right where you are!” Commanded a Stormtrooper on the lowest stand with his blaster rifle pointed at Naiya. Not a moment later, the court was surrounded by his counterparts, enclosing the shockball players without any means for them to escape. “Hands up where we can see them!” He threw another command, which everyone responded to slowly.

Yesinda didn’t seem too worried by the enclosure. Her eyes assessed her opponent’s numbers and locations, then fell on the weequay who returned the gesture. Qar-Tan, not pleased by their predicament, hissed at Móni from behind. “What now?”

“Don’t move.” A Stormtrooper to his right angled his gun at eye level, prepared to shoot the iktotchi’s head.

“Wait a second.” Móni smirked.

“Are you asking the Stormtrooper’s or him?” She heard Jien ask. “Because neither could give a kriff about your time.”

“Now you’re making it sound like I’m with the Empire…,” Qar-tan sulked.

“Quiet. The three of you.” In a calm tone edged with authority was a Stormtrooper with an orange shoulder pad on his left shoulder signifying his commander status. His blaster was raised with professional steadiness and each soft step he took was calculated. He tilted his head and allowed several comrades fall in step with him, but with binders in their hands. “No one makes a sound or move, else I’ll but bolts between your friends’ eyes.”

Móni grimaced. Although their armour was different, behind the helmets were the same clones who gave the Separatists a run for their money during the Clone Wars, and killed countless Jedi. They weren’t dealing with fools, which made escape an impossible feat. She could only hope Yesinda’s diabolical mind would get them out of the situation. And using the Force was out of the question; not because she would give herself away to the Empire, but out of pure spite.

Then there it was. Móni never would had thought the togruta’s murderous smile could fill her with relief. The weequay pressed a button on a silver band hidden inside the cuff of his glove and several ports opened along the whole of the court’s centerline.

“What in the-?” A Stormtrooper positioned by a port took a tentative step closer, but was thrown off balance by a shockball shooting out of it. Over a dozen shockballs filled the court, all with a painted, blue silhouette of a togruta’s head on them. They darted at anyone it considered an opponent against Yesinda’s team. The Stormtrooper’s didn’t have the same eye and agility as Móni’s team, who dodged the rabid balls with ease, but did their best with the insufferable amount of movement their armour would allow. Some dodged with surprising dexterity and shot down most of them, and others were shocked into submission.

Amid the pandemonium, Móni rolled under a shockball and came up in front of the commander who was reassembling his troops with new commands. She took his attention away from his unit when she grappled his blaster rifle. He brought his head forward meant to headbutt, but Móni leaned away and elbowed him in the helmet. The clone grounded himself and shook away his daze to land a kick at her knees. But Móni jumped with her knees to her chest and extended them against his chest. With a grunt, he released his blaster and gasped for air.

“We gotta find a way to the balcony,” Móni pointed with her newly acquired weapon. A bolt grazed her left cheek. She whirled to the commander who had a pistol raised at her. Before he could land another shot, Yesinda’s voice carried across the court.

“Human!” She ordered at the blonde man who looked just about ready to soil himself. But he found enough courage to fumble over the smoke grenades stashed in the front of his pants and executed them. “Not all of them! Idiot!”

An explosion of smoke covered the court. Red bolts illuminated through the gray fog and Móni shot back, hitting several troopers from their shouts of pain. “Get on the ground and to the queue!” She hoped her teammates heard over the Stormtrooper’s blasters and cacophony of new orders. On the ground and crawling her way to the queue box, the commander was closer to her than anticipated when she heard him speak with another troop.

“Spread out to the edges and shuffle your way there. They’re crawling somewhere and the last thing we need is everyone falling over. And I’m allowing everyone to remove these blasted helmets.”

“Here, here.” Another responded with liberation. A helmet with yellow markings fell to the ground beside her.

“Like a breath of fresh air.” One breathed in deeply.

“Ugh. I think I stepped on the dead guy’s guts.”

“Focus,” the commander spoke with a clear voice now without the helmet’s filter. “The woman with black curls is a fighter, and the togruta, a well-known criminal.” Their commander shuffled forward near Móni’s waist. She rolled out of his way and crawled without much regard for caution if she wanted to get to her destination quickly.

Avoiding the Stormtrooper’s footfalls was a simple task for Móni, and as much she would like to tell someone it was due to luck or quick intuition, it wasn’t. The Force was a part of every being in the galaxy and those with higher midi-chlorians had the ability to utilize it better than most. But then there were those who were born with it imbued into their DNA and have the sensitivity of one hundred of Shysha’s antennaepalps. Móni bit the inside of her cheek and wondered how to explain this overwhelming “luck” to her teammates if they asked. It’s one thing to be an overwhelmingly good shockball player in the Outer Rim (without the need to _cheat_ ), but it’s another to be a human who were known to have slower and fewer traits than most species. And Naiya was already skeptical. If word got out about Móni’s existence, then the Emperor would track her until the end of her days. But if Naiya could grasp some bit of truth, then so did everyone else on the court. The situation was becoming more complex than she wanted it to be, and all because she couldn’t control her emotions like some mediocre padawan.

 In the queue box, there was a slender body and blue hair. “Shysha,” Móni whispered.

“Móni. What in the universe happened?” The balosar whispered in return.

“Now’s not the time,” she hoped her slip up won’t be brought up again. “Is anyone else there?”

“Did you see what that schutta had up her sleeves?” Qar-Tan griped in a harsh whisper. “She practically had control of the whole vaping game!”

Jien muffled a cough as he made his way over on his stomach. “Lower your voice.”

“And Naiya?” Móni asked.

There was silence among her teammates. Within a second, she grew cold with sweat at the likelihood the nautolan could had gone to inform the Stormtroopers of the revealed secret. Móni didn’t miss the fear flash in those black orbs when she called her a Jedi. But her body warmed again when Shysha spoke. “She’s here.”

“Great. We need to get to that balcony and find the Hutt before she leaves with our prize money. And since it's our only exit out of here, I guess.”

“Can’t you just jump up there?” Qar-Tan received a good smack across the head from Jien. “What? You saw what she could do. It’s no wonder she’s so good in shockball. It’s almost unfair.”

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Jien whispered back with good sense. “Our priority is getting out of here. Forget the money.”

“No,” Shysha spoke with finality. “We just lost our home and it’s going to cost money to find a new one.”

“Besides,” Móni shrugged. “Might as well claim what’s ours.”

“We weren’t going to win,” Qar-Tan said as a matter fact. “But I want to see Yesinda’s face when we swipe the money from her.”

Jien sighed, obviously not for the unnecessary expedition. “Naiya, you’re new here and we’re not about to drag you into our problems. What do you think?”

Naiya was silent. Around them the Stormtroopers were edging closer to their location. There was a sound of metal wire extending upward and grasping onto the balcony’s metal ledge above. This alerted the troopers and sent their attention away from where Móni and her team were.

With a stroke of impatience, Qar-Tan clicked his tongue. “I don’t care what you think? Go do your own thing.”

“I say, let Móni handle it on her own.” There was spite in Naiya’s tone and although Móni couldn’t see her eyes, she could feel the vindictive gaze burning through her head. “Why risk more lives when one person with the power equivalent to all of us combined can accomplish the task just fine?”

There was a shuffle and Shysha asked, “Where are you going?”

“I’m not interested in the money. I can make my own way out.”

“Wait.” Without meaning to, Móni’s whisper was harsh and desperate, but from the cease of her shuffling Naiya stopped to listen. Although the nautolan stated her lack of care for money, Móni doesn’t know her—her goals, circumstances, and life—and found it hard to believe she wouldn’t tell the Empire of her existence in exchange for a pretty sum of credits. It was what everyone in the Abolition ever cared about and their greatest weakness. However, Móni herself didn’t care for the money either, but knew her teammates and Kyp could be better off with loaded pockets. Whether the nautolan was offended by Móni’s anger, her being a supposed Jedi, or something else entirely, Móni would never know; what was important was to not offend Naiya any further.

“I’m sorry,” were Móni’s final words to the nautolan.

There was a defeated sigh. “Good luck,” was what she said before skirting off on her elbows and knees in the opposite direction of the violent commotion to their right. There was a raging bellow that could only belong to the besalisk followed by a trooper’s scream as he soared over Móni’s company’s heads, and landed with hard thud at the other end of the court.

“Stormtrooper’s got to ‘em,” Qar-Tan commented.

Móni clenched her jaw. “She’s right. I’ll be faster on my own.”

“Don’t be an idiot. She doesn’t know-,” Jien wanted to stop her, but Móni talked over him. She spoke into a hidden commlink tucked under her gloves.

“Betts. How’s it looking on your end?”

After some static Betts spoke in her usual monotonous tone. “ **Boring.** ”

“I need you to get to the Hutt’s balcony and open the largest out of bounds port on the left side of the court. Then pull me up. And hurry. Our cover is dissipating.”

“ **Sure. Whatever that meant. _Dissipating_.** ” The static ceased. Móni handed her gun to Jien.

Qar-Tan was affronted. “Why don’t I get the gun?”

“Your hands are practically fried, laser brains,” Shysha retorted. “So are mine.”

Móni held Jien’s bewildered gaze. “Go to the living wards in the fortieth level. In the monkey-lizard building apartment 421 is a boy in a wheelchair and his grandma. They have a ship they can take you to. Arsenal should be there too.”

“You know Arsenal?” Qar-Tan did not believe it. “Personally?”

“He’s Zione.”

Qar-Tan about screeched at the revelation, but Shysha covered his mouth in time. “You’re probably the only person who didn’t know.”

“Take care of the kid.” Móni pleaded. Jien could only nod his head in response.

“ **M** **óni. I’m at the balcony and I opened the ports.** ”

“Alright. Just a sec.” Móni returned to her team. “I’ll leave the credits in the ship, since I’ll most likely make it there before you guys. Escape through those ports.”

Jien searched her eyes and narrowed his own. “You’re not coming with us.”

With Qar-Tan’s mouth still covered by Shysha’s hand, he exclaimed a muffled ‘what’.

She did not acknowledge the correct assumption and spoke into the commlink. “Take me up, Betts.”

Shysha searched Móni’s stone-face. It was probably the least expressive mask Shysha had seen from her captain, and it made her uneasy. Anyone would be in a fit of desperation if Stromtroopers came and raided their home, but Móni was the sort of person who laughed when things went dangerously south. The match she fended off an entire team on her own, she was grinning like a fool the entire time; swimming in adrenaline and fun. Then it occurred to her: Volsh meant to kill Móni, and not a minute later Imperial forces burst in. _Are they here for her?_

Cool metal grazed her attenaepalps and she jumped with a screech. She covered her mouth too late to silence the noise and met everyone else’s equally astonished looks. Then the dreaded voice spoke from within the fog to confirm what they heard.

“What was that?”

“Good going,” Qar-Tan eyed his companion.

Móni waved her arm at them in a gesture for them to move. “Just get out of here.” She replaced where Shysha sat and grasped Betts’ metal hand.

“Móni, wait,” Jien began, but stopped when Qar-Tan jerked his arm.

“Goodbye,” their captain said as she was lifted away.

Below Móni’s steady assent was a nearly transparent screen of gray and three men in white armour; their commander among them. Jien held his blaster at the ready while his teammates made their way down the ports. Móni bit her tongue to keep from shouting to Jien, but she would be at a disadvantage now that she was without a weapon—she’s no good to them dead. When Qar-Tan and Shysha jumped in, Jien prepared to follow.

“Hold it right there!” The commander ordered.

To the day she gave her last breath, Móni would never know what stopped Jien from jumping in. When he stared at the Stormtroopers’ bare faces, he recognized them and loosened the grip on the blaster. “Boil. Cody,” he rasped out. The pause seemed like hours as they exchanged a long, forgotten history meant only for the three of them. A secret only they shared from days when clone and anti-Separatists fought side by side. The third trooper raised his gun at eye-level.

Panic tore through Móni’s lungs. “Jien!” The bolt aimed true to its target and made a black hole in the center of the twi’lek’s head. When his listless body fell to the side, his eyes retained their emotion: hope.

Without a beat, the two others whirled at Móni’s location, which she was just at the balcony’s ledge. Red bolts whizzed passed her when she heaved herself over the metal bar. She hissed in pain when one grazed her right thigh just before she landed inside the Hutt’s lair.

“Close the ports and find out if there’s a shutter or something to close the balcony.”

Without a word, Betts input a few commands on an orange screen with one hand while the other arm retracted to its socket. “Ports closed.” Now with both hands her fingers danced over the screen for her second instructions. Móni then noticed a hook wedged into the bar which must had been what soared into the air before the Stormtroopers hit Yesinda’s team. With a grunt of effort and gritted teeth she made to pull the hook’s claws out from its deep indention. The metal creaked when a centimeter of success was made.

“This is going to take too long,” she huffed. Another set of grappling hooks wounded the bar. “Forget the shutters. Let’s go.”

Unperturbed by the immediate situation, and jaded, Betts replied, “I just found it.”

“Now, Betts!”

Betts ignored her master and with a few more touches the shutters went down. It was however impeded by the hooks from sealing off the balcony completely and left a gap. It was enough, the droid understood, to slow down their pursuers. “What’s gotten you so angry?” She asked, rolling with Móni’s strides.

“People are dying because of me. We should have left the moment I felt that Sith board the Abolition. I wouldn't be surprised if he's that "Second" _Br_ _other_. Sounds like something from a cult.”

“Your presence maybe sped things up, but the Empire would have raided the place with or without you in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve known about the Abolition for some time.”

Móni did not comment on the droid’s truth and focused on finding the Hutt who, without a doubt, escaped with all her credits. Dust colored tapestries of her notorious family adorned the sticky walls, and an uneaten plate of dead insects sat on a low antique table of Naboo design. By the cheap grandeur of the place, the Hutt made herself a small palace to feel important in the decaying station for it was nothing compared to her cousin’s home on Tatooine.  And like her cousin, she prepped trapped doors for her enemies…

A dust colored rug with red tribal patterns was flung to the side from covering a long crack on the floor.

“… Or for her to escape from her enemies.” Móni wedged her hands in the crevice and pushed the floor to open further. When the thick metal only budged a few inches from using her full strength, she checked the area for any nearby consoles for Betts to hack into, or a concealed mechanism.

Betts turned her head to the balcony where armored hands attempted to wretch the shutters open. Unlike Móni, who forced the metal to creak from her attempts, the clones with their combined efforts couldn’t even make a sound. “They’re going to explode their way through and capture us if you don’t use it.” 

“Aren’t you even a little anxious about our situation?” Móni huffed when the floor slid another inch.

“What part should I be anxious about?”

“Let’s see…,” Móni stood with her hands on her hips from her excursion. With one hand she made a motion of sliding the door open. There’s no point in hiding herself now she’s been discovered, and as hard as she worked from using the oh-so-powerful Force, her pride was the last of her worries. “I’ve got a cultist after me. A friend of mine was killed. I used the Force when I promised myself I would never use it again. I sent the others to protect a kid and an old lady they don’t know.”

“Pretty much what I expected from my master.” Betts peered into the dark opening. The inner corners were scraped as if something had been raised and lowered several times. “The lift is gone,” she commented.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come across a stupid Hutt,” Móni said as she wrapped herself around Betts.

Betts extended her arms and lowered herself into the opening with her master on her back. Her hands slid down the smooth walls and descended them into darkness. There was an explosion above followed by shouts. Móni raised her hand and slid the trap door shut.

The droid’s eyes beamed white rays into the dark abyss. “Another day in that slimy hole in the wall and you would weigh as much as a Hutt.”

“Hard to pass up on all that good food.”

“That _you_ made. Control your own portions, woman.”

In the creaking shaft with the lingering Hutt’s odor, the darkness was welcoming. Móni considered releasing her hold to break her bones into a thousand pieces on the floor below. _Not now_ , she thought. _People need my help. Maybe after._

“Approaching the floor,” Betts broke Móni’s bloody dream and returned her to the task at hand.

Betts dimmed her brightened eyes for a pool of light below grew larger the further their descent. Soon, voices were heard and the blurred light formed a square with the missing metal shaft. A large shadow slugged its way past and spoke in Huttese:

“How much longer? I don’t trust that _Grand_ Inquisitor and his lackey's promise for my “seamless” escape. I’m positive he intends to keep me inside during the Imperial’s lockdown of the Abolition.”

“Not long,” a male voice rasped with age spoke in his master’s tongue. “Just prepping the ship.”

“Prepping for what?” The Hutt’s anger flared.

There was a cough before the male-servant replied serenely. “The weight, otherwise we’d be making a rather slow escape.”

If the Hutt was offended by the reply, it certainly didn’t convey in her tone. “Only load the credits. Forget everything else.”

Móni whispered to her droid. “That’s our cue.” She released her hold in the way she imagined just moments ago, only—against her fantasy—she landed on her feet unscathed. The Hutt gave such a turn, her tail swept under the ishi tib’s feet and he fell on his back. He groaned in pain from his weary bones and rolled onto his side without making much effort to lift himself up. The Hutt’s surprise left her face when she recognized the human before her.

“Durmónia. I expected Yesinda to come after my credits, never you.”

“There’s a cosmic storm going on up there, and my team and I need our winnings for our trip outta here.”

The Hutt roared with laughter, shaking her sagging skin and fat. “Winnings? You were never going to win. The moment I included that bounty hunter in your roster, it was your loss.”

An eyebrow quirked its way up. “Bounty hunter? Didn't know I had a price on my head."

The Hutt’s slimy lips raised to a smirk. The satisfaction glimmering in her watery eyes raised a pique of annoyance in Móni. “You don't,” she cooed. "But the Emperor seems to have a special interest in you."

Móni’s breathing hitched. It couldn’t have been possible. How long had the Emperor known about her existence? The wheels turned in her head for any moment in the past she used the Force. The last time was five years ago with Kyp’s father and his gang; long before the end of the Clone Wars and Palpatine’s reign. Unless… “Someone survived,” she finished her thoughts aloud.

“You’ve been one of my best competitors, but unfortunately-,” From behind the Hutt, a woman bounty hunter flew out of the shadows and her neck trapped in Móni’s outstretched hand.

“I’m worth more than your weight.”

A growl erupted from the slug’s enormous neck. "Forget the Inquisitor's orders. Get her." Nine bounty hunters emerged from hiding and surrounded the lonely human with blasters, vibroblades, and other assortments of modified weapons. “Remember. She’s worth more alive.”

“That makes things a lot easier for me.” The bounty hunter’s face turned purple and the white of her eyes begun to show. Móni dropped the unconscious woman without qualm. “You’re going to wait for the clones to get me or do you want your money?”

A rodian was the first to shoot. Móni seamlessly dodged the red beam and allowed it to strike a bounty hunter behind her. A masked female swung her vibroblades with some mastery, but Móni grabbed her with the Force, swung her into another hunter and into a wall that rendered them unconscious. The back of her neck prickled from the sensation of something piercing a thin barrier behind her head. She tilted her head to the side when a vibroblade missed her cheek by mere centimeters. Móni took the arm the blade belonged to and flung the being over and in front of her; their back struck the floor with a crack followed by a scream.

The next two came at her with some strategy: one in front and the other behind. The other three remained at a distance with their blasters raised at the ready. Móni took a moment to avert her attention to the Hutt boarding a ship while dragging the ishi tib by the ankle behind her. Betts singular wheel peaked from the tunnel above the shaft. “Stay where you are Betts!” Móni warned.

She closed her eyes and absorbed the Force around her as if inhaling the purest and crispest air into the lungs. Her arms reciprocated the flow of the Force flowing in, then—her eyes opened with a blue shimmer within the orange iris’—she extended the flow and pushed out a wave that knocked everyone back to a wall and rocked the area. The Hutt lost her balance and her thin arms flailed miserably as she slid off the ramp. Betts dropped to the shaft. Beside her a bounty hunter moaned of pain, so she smacked him hard against the head to silence him.

Móni ignored the Hutts protests when she stepped into the ship. It was unusually wide and the floors slick, meant to accommodate her kind. Off to the side is a chest cracked open with gold credits. When she lifted the lid her eyebrows shot up, impressed with how much the Hutt managed to get down here in little time. Now she’s found her goal, the new question was how to transport it. With a quick glance around the ship, she scanned for anything capable to hold enough credits for—assuming nothing has happened to the others—four. Spread out on a round table is a thick tapestry with designs Móni didn’t have the time to consider. She stripped the table and tested the material for its strength and durability. A vibroblade could cut through it with a little more effort than a singular slice and it wouldn’t burn as easily as cheap clothing. The woman shrugged and jutted her lower lip at its adequacy.

When she stomped down the ramp with a bulk of credits slung behind her back, the Hutt screeched. “That’s a family heirloom dating back centuries!”

“Consider it payment for trying to get me killed and my sparing your life.”

“No!” Still hurt from the fall, her sluggish movement appeared much heavier. She smacked the ishi tib over its green head, who was still splayed out on the floor. “Do something, Denbo!” His only response was a groan.

“Here.” Móni held the sack out toward Betts.

“So,” Betts started as she took the load from her master. “It seems you _are_ the cause.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Betts,” Móni shoved the sack against the droid with a little more force than necessary.

“Does this mean we can live away from living things? Specifically, ones who don’t puke every night.”

Like a shadow being cast, the room went cold and the air much too still. Móni spun to a masked male clad in black and gray. In his extended hand was a long, metal cylinder she recognized all too well. A red saber extended from the blade emitter which its wielder executed a swift spin to give Móni enough speculation that the male was properly trained… unlike her sorry self.

"Second Brother," The Hutt shirked back to the wall. "I can explain. She attacked me first!"

“Find us a way out,” she spoke under breath, more than loud enough for Betts to hear. “Fast.”

The Sith, or Second Brother, spun the humming saber above his head and brought it down in one swift stroke upon Móni's head. She side stepped out of the way, but smelt burnt hair from the baby hairs he singed. With the Force, she lifted a bounty hunter’s blaster to her hand and aimed it at him. “Seems you’ve been on the ship since yesterday, stalking me.” Behind the dark figure, Betts rolled against the room’s edges, searching for any hidden doors or ports to escape through. _Keep him occupied_. _Keep him occupied_ , she chanted to herself. “Watching me during the shockball match too. Honestly, I don’t know what the Emperor wants with me. I’ve been told I’m kind of annoying, and he wouldn’t strike me as someone who makes friends with nonsensical people. Right?” He took one step forward and went into a stance one could only assume was of someone ready to attack. “We can’t see his face or talk about our Emperor. Makes me wonder…” Betts electrocuted the Hutt with an arc welder when she skulked her way over to take back her beloved tapestry, and, to Móni’s relief, had a scomp link plugged into a terminal. “If he’s self-conscious about his looks. I hear Sith doesn’t do too well for the complexion.”

Her focus returned to the opponent a second too late when he attacked with a fast, upward strike at her chest. Móni’s reflexes did well enough where the saber merely grazed her top garment and burnt the skin on her sternum. “Stars! You’re fast.” Useless as a blaster may be against a lightsaber and ignoring the pain on her chest, Móni fired some bolts to retain his focus on deflecting them. Behind him, Betts succeeded in opening a door.

Next step, Móni’s mind raced, was to mask their exit. Calling Betts for help would alert the Sith, so that option was a dead end. If there was a steam radiator hidden in the mess of grease and cables on the ceiling or walls, there wasn’t any she could spot between searching for one and keeping another eye on the opponent’s movements. The Sith lunged forward with both hands on his lightsaber and performed a precise thrust at Móni’s abdomen. She jumped back and landed on a bounty hunter’s limp leg and fell, barely missing the follow up cut intended for her face.

She landed beside an unconscious noghri who had a utility belt strapped around his waist. Without a moment’s thought, she unclasped it and rolled out of the Sith’s downward strike meant for her arm. Móni jumped to her feet and, with one hand, squeezed each pocket on the belt for a familiar, round object. Sensing something amiss, the Sith closed their distance in one stride to create a horizontal strike at the belt. Móni allowed him to cut a piece of it off, since it was below the pouch containing her escape. She undid the pouch behind her back and shot at the dark figure. When her fingers grasped two metal balls, she pressed a button on them and threw them at her feet.

Smoke exploded into the square space, concealing Móni and her route out. A faded red glow and hum of the lightsaber was the only visible indication of the Sith’s whereabouts, in turn Móni concentrated on the Force around her to conceal her presence from him; as if cloaking herself with an extra layer of skin.

Betts could detect her master’s heat signature and thus grasped her arm with her metal digits to lure her in the right direction. The Hutt wailed for her lost treasure, to which Móni clicked her tongue in annoyance at.  She pushed Betts into the doorway and whispered harshly, “Hurry up and close the thing.” A loud hum from the lightsaber’s sudden swing sent a cold chill down Móni neck; the movement could only mean he made a running start toward the Hutt’s troublesome sobs and their location. “Now, Betts!”

The droid had her fingers-turned scomp link plugged in the terminal already and turned it left to right. The Sith’s lightsaber was a clear light of red when it plunged into the closing door. Móni stepped back from the blade’s tip burned through the door’s center and pointed at her nose.

“Make a run for it.”

“Never a dull moment with you,” Betts responded with exhaustion.

Móni sprinted down the poorly lit hall with Betts rolling in pace beside her. “We’ve got to get to the living wards, _fast_.” As soon as she finished her panicked thought, she stopped fast beside a rectangular wall welded poorly in place. She pressed her ear to it and knocked twice. It was hollow on the other side. She took a step back and Forced pushed the wall inward, which sent the flimsy piece flying into a large, circular shaft lined with broken tubes filled with torn cables and open panels stripped of their parts.

Betts peered inside with her bright eyes. “An elevator as old as Jabba.”

“Let’s do this,” Móni jumped onto a ladder that moaned with a weight it probably hadn’t felt in decades. Betts extended her arms and swung from tube to tube down the shaft.

Inside the left side of the torn through wall was a mechanism that seemed to fit into the adjacent side. Móni flexed her fingers to test its maneuverability. The mechanism stirred and creaked awake with displeasure. She let out a huff of exertion. “Its rusted shut in there. And heavy.” She held her breath and tried again. The mechanism slid out, and whatever color the door once had was stained brown beyond comprehension. With every ounce of her concentration she closed it all the way, sealing them in darkness.

“Let’s see him try opening that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no Maul this chapter. But, next one is going to be all about him.


	6. High Baritone

Chaos reigned down in the stadium. The clones shot anyone who tried to escape or assaulted them. Even worse, fights broke out amongst the Abolition residents over corpses’ credits and hidden valuables. There were also brutal bouts when it came to stuffing aliens into compact hatches, ventilation systems, and many other routes of escape the clones have no knowledge of; until they’re caught and killed. Luckily, Zione knew every concealed pathway within the stadium due to an old assignment years ago as Arsenal, where he had to copy the area’s schematics from the Hutt’s personal database. The unfortunate part was he made his getaway with a crazed nightbrother who had yellow eyes tainted with red and mechanical legs.

They moved along the stands crouched to the floor with Zione in the lead. His two-metered body, not including his tail, took up a lot of space and made for an uncomfortable escape. The zabrak following him snarled from the slow pace, but kept his attention to their surroundings to stop anything that could further impede on their timing.

Aliens ran amok across the stands with their blasters raised at the ready, but were swiftly taken down by the adept Stormtroopers. One frantic rodian attempted to jump over a row of seats and was startled to find two figures crawling below. He landed on Zione’s tail which incited a yelp of pain. An annoyed scowl formed on the zabrak’s features as he lifted and flipped the rodian over the next row of seats in one fluid motion. When he looked above the stands, two Stormtroopers were walking over rows to where they last saw the rodian: in their direction.

“Move faster,” he growled at Zione.

Zione contained his backtalk and through gritted teeth replied. “I’m moving as best I can.” He wished the stands were more accommodating to aliens his size.

In a moment of weakness, Zione needed to stretch his crushed tail and pop the bones. The zabrak pushed it down before it could be visible, but his touch raised alarms in the amani’s head. Zione stood up and whipped around his attention to the horned sith. “Touch my tail again and I’ll rip your legs off.”

“Hey, you! Put your hands where I can see them!” A Stormtrooper commanded as he and his partner raised their blasters at him.

Zione did as he was told. The zabrak, however, rose up and force pushed the troopers several rows back. A few other troopers in the vicinity turned to the commotion and reacted quickly.

“After them!”

The zabrak bared his teeth at the incoming nuisance.

Zione let his “partner” deal with the obstacles as he ran toward his escape. Though, one trooper detached himself from his group to go after the amani and shot bolts over his head. Zione skidded to a stop and ducked behind a row. From his utility belt he removed a triangular knife with ragged edges and blue wires extending from the hilt to form pulsing veins across the blade. When the trooper took one breath of no firing, Zione threw the blade directly between the soldier’s shoulder and breast plates. The trooper only needed a second to absorb the pain and aimed at his target, but electricity ran throughout his body and he fell to the ground with steam rising from his burnt skin.

Behind Zione, the zabrak used the force to disarm the troopers and force pushed them back. The amani sprinted to a seat labeled with the glowing white numbers he was searching for. He lifted the seat’s arms which made a satisfying click. He pushed the seat back to open a dark entrance that led to a clandestine network that coursed throughout the Abolition.

He could hear the zabrak’s quick steps approaching. He slipped inside and closed and locked the hatch after him. When the zabrak reached the seat the corner of his mouth and eye twitched with irritation. He surveyed the area to find the Stormtroopers and aliens preoccupied with each other.

His hand recalled a metal cylinder with a broken crescent at its hilt from inside of his open top. A red blade extended and hummed to life, and with it he burned a circle around the chair and lifted it out of its place with the force. He looked beyond the burning red edges of his work and into the darkness. He jumped inside and allowed the unknown to engulf him.

The passages were dark and damp, but it did not have the putrid smell or slimy walls of the Abolition’s surface. From the hundreds of thousands who live in the space station, less than a hundred may have had any knowledge of these routes. It was much too large to be a ventilation shaft for the zabrak could stand his full height, and neither was it a sewage system because of the lack of water. The narrow space was well built with odd designs placed on every other ceiling block, which the zabrak could not decipher. He did deduce it must have been a language of the species who built the Abolition during the Old Republic. Their symbols may have been of importance to help guide him through the tunnels, since there was no sign of the amani.

A distant echo of footsteps carried across the tubes and reached the zabrak’s well-trained ears. They were not heavy and did not pitter-patter like an amani, but were light and quick with some weight put into them. A humanoid. And they were not alone. He concentrated on the vibration coursing from the floor into his metal legs and into his organic midsection. It was continuous, like a wheel. A droid. A humanoid and a droid.

He followed the vibration’s intensity as he neared his goal and soon was close enough to hear voices. Both female.

“Where in the seven suns are we?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The latter voice was metallic, which could only belong to the droid.

“Then how do you know how to get to where we need to go?”

“I think your lizard friend may have implanted some information in me.”

“That’s disconcerting.”

“I can tell you’re oozing with concern for me.”

“He’s my friend. And I only have two of those. Why aren’t you concerned for yourself?”

“When have I ever been concerned for anything?”

“Very true.”

The zabrak edged along the wall and peered over the corner to catch a glimpse of a servant droid and a dark-skinned human with a bun of black curls. Slung over her shoulder was a bulging sack that looked 20 times her weight, but there was no fatigue in her voice or body. He recognized her as the talented shockball player with fast reflexes and finely tuned agility. She stiffened for a breath of a second.

“What?” The droid turned its beaming eyes on the human.

“How much further?” The human murmured.

“We should be close by.”

They continued down the corridor and made a left turn. The zabrak eased his way across with as little pressure on his metal joints as he could else their lack of maintenance would squeak through every passageway. He did not forget the moment the human held her breath; she knew she was being followed. The woman was not someone to be trifled with.

“Here,” the droid said. Its eyes illuminated an indented circle in the ceiling. “Looks like it can only be opened from the other side.”

The woman took a moment to observe their exit, then focused on the zabrak’s exact location behind her. “Come out.”

The zabrak felt for his lightsaber being safely tucked out of sight in his top before making himself known. He did not raise his hands in surrender, but rather stalked forward with his hands placed behind his lower back. “You’re more skilled than I thought,” he said simply.

The woman’s sunset eyes glowered at him, waiting for a proper response. She knew he was warming her up.

He continued his polite tone. “I watched your match. Or what was left of it.”

Her glower did not falter. She was pondering her next move; analyzing the unknown. He noticed a slight movement of her jaw, but she still held her tongue.

“I believe introductions are in order. I am Maul. A… member of a crime syndicate. And you are Durmónia, if I recall--”

“What are you here for?” She cut him off, quick and sharp.

“I am looking for a ship. Your friend was the one who told me about this place.”

Móni tilted her head in question. “Friend?”

“Yes. The amani. He told me I may run into you and that I should ask for your guidance.”

The woman held the sack over to the droid and dropped it in its outstretched arms. “This is as far as you’ll go.”

“Uh. Móni?” The droid questioned without much hesitation. “He only needs a ship. Zione has plenty stocked somewhere.”

Maul narrowed his eyes at the woman. The droid bought the diversion, but the woman… the woman was looking past his politeness. His lies. His being a poor zabrak who got tangled in crime for a living. No. She saw more. And there was only one group who had the ability to look beyond and into the soul of a matter. So, it _was_ the Force he felt at the height of the match. He called his lightsaber into his hand and lit the pulsing red blade.

“Jedi,” he sneered. Maul couldn’t decide whether to be agitated over this blockade or excited. He hadn’t had a proper duel since General Grievous—the mechanical trash. The remainder of his time until that moment had been fodder. He thirsted for the smell of burnt skin and sweat. To test his limits again and bask in the glory of victory. He should avoid battle, else it could cost his growing empire and its future. But if she insisted, who was he to stop her?

When the title bounced off his tongue rage flared within Móni. Uncontrolled, raw anger. Something very unbecoming of a Jedi.

Before he could form another thought, he was pushed back with what felts like the power of a herd of banthas. He struck a wall, winding him upon contact. He caught his fall with his hands, but gasped and coughed for the air to return to his lungs. His head spun and ears rang; disallowing him to comprehend what she was doing.

There was a loud warping of metal being torn apart and faded voices. Maul opened his mouth to pop the ears and, with every ounce of his being, willed his mind to focus.

The droid lifted itself and the sack with a prolonged arm into a forced hole in the ceiling. Clearly on alert, Móni stepped into Maul’s line of sight.

Already recovering from his body’s shock, Maul stood on his metal legs and relit his lightsaber. This time, he extended the other blade on the opposite end. He turned his neck without losing eye contact and cracked his neck. A malicious grin spread across his red and black features. “Let’s begin.”

A snort.

Ready to sprint to a long-awaited duel, Maul was stopped by a snort coming from the woman. His grin faltered into a scowl.

“Were you expecting a duel?” Móni mocked a frown and shrugged her shoulders. “Hate to tell you, but I don’t have a lightsaber. Never held one in my life.”

That was certainly a curious piece of information; also, disappointing. “No matter. You won’t make the fight easy with or without one.” He took another step.

“Says the one with a weapon,” she retorted. “Not exactly a fair fight.”

“We shall see.” Bored of the idle chatter, without a doubt meant to stall for time, Maul broke his stance and jumped with his lightsaber raised above his head.

Another Force push halted his fall, but he bounced off the wall with his legs in anticipation and flung at the woman with a diagonal upper cut of his saber. Alarmed by his dexterity, she fell back to the ground on her hands to barely dodge the hot weapon. Maul swung his blade down at her, only making scorched cuts on the floor as she deftly avoided each strike. She back rolled into a crouch, which the zabrak took as an opportune moment to fling her against the wall. To his astonishment, as if she could see the Force, she deflected it with a wave of her hand and attempted to pull his lightsaber away.

With the battle of wills, Maul did not let go of his weapon as the woman dragged him towards her. Her use of the Force was powerful, nearly on the same level of his former master. But her control of it was amateur as well as her movements. He could tell she lacked proper training, and assumed she was only able to move away from his strikes by instinct alone. And if what she said was true, how she never held a lightsaber in her life, then she was neither Jedi, nor Padawan, nor Sith. Could she have been self-taught? Doubtful. To use the Force required training, for one needed to understand it to use it. And that knowledge could only be passed through Jedi masters or Sith lords.

He was getting more intrigued with the human.

From the hole above, the droid’s voice echoed. “Are you done, yet?”

“Pull me up, Betts!” Móni exhaled to deflate her tension and spiraled her hands in the same motion she wanted the lightsaber to move. Maul flipped onto his side, then was pushed back several feet.

An arm extended down the hole and Móni jumped to grab a hold of it. Maul seethed with anger and threw his lightsaber in a spin like a disc. The woman jumped up the arm and held her feet out in front of her as the lightsaber cut the droid’s arm beneath her. He heard her groan. “Great.”

Maul sprinted to her while recalling his weapon. He jumped up into the opening and bounced off the wall to reach her. The squeaking halt of metal gears rung down to him followed by the woman’s fear tinged voice. “What’s going on, Betts?”

“Slight malfunction. Kyp’s on it.” The droid called back.

Good. She stopped. He grinned at the prospect until he finally reached her. He hung onto an inactive console with one hand, whilst his other illuminated their faces with his lightsaber. Her features were smooth, but riddled with sweat and smeared with oil. Her loose curls still retained their volume, despite the perspiration on her forehead, and her full lips slightly parted with surprise. The brilliance of her eyes was what struck him; they were Sith-like, but not so clouded with rage. And they looked directly into his own, blood-stained ones. He needed to strike her down. Now! He bared his gritted teeth from the unnecessary struggle, as if something were holding him down. He could not ignore that it was the Force pulsating through him, as if it had decided the woman’s fate already, but not by his hand. He relinquished the pulsating blade and could feel the coolness of the surface drifting down rather than his weapon’s heat.

The Force had plans for her, but that didn’t mean he won’t have use of her. She was untamed, without training, without a master, and brimming with power. He could finely tune her into a living, breathing weapon; one that could possibly rival the Emperor. Yes. She was exactly what he needed.

Her expression contorted from surprise, to confusion, to disappointment. “Kill me.” She whispered.

Maul could feel her sorrow and depression. When he didn’t give a response, her anger flared—burning hot—and she yanked at his collar without restraint, nearly pulling him away from his leverage; although, he had a feeling she could have lifted him with ease. “Do it!”

Yes. That was the first step. The hatred. The anger. Her mind was cracked, and all he had to do was break her. “Hm. No,” he smirked. “You will be of use to me.”

“You-,” she began with a sharp inhale, but stopped when then the extended arm jerked to life and raised her to the exit. When she stepped onto the surface there was a clamor of voices who called her by her name and filled with worry.

He jumped the final few meters and landed swiftly onto the surface. There was an array of ships docked side by side. Some were under refurbishment and others were a complete disaster as if they were taken directly out of a scrapyard. There was only two at most that appeared fit enough to fly. Maul then took the time to consider the group surrounding Móni: a female balosar, a male iktotchi, an old theelin, a half theelin child, and… A devilish smirk grew on his lips at the amani. “We meet again. And so soon, Arsenal.”

Half of Zione’s face twitched with frustration, but he made no other movement. The balosar and iktotchi on the other hand were in a protective stance before the theelins.

Móni locked eyes with Maul for a moment—a mutual understanding passed between them. The woman knew he could kill every breathing thing in a blink of an eye, and if all he wanted was a ship and her in return for their lives, there wasn’t much to consider. She turned to the group. “Go.”

“But,” the theelin child started from his wheelchair.

Móni crouched to his eyelevel. “You’ll be safe with these guys. I trust them. And I need you to trust me. I’m not safe. You can’t be around me.” She placed a kiss on his forehead then wiped his tears with her thumbs. “Thank you for everything.”

She stood and faced Zione. “We’ll take the smaller freighter.” Before walking past, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Goodbye, friend.” He bowed his head and placed his overly large hand on top of her daintier one before she slipped away.

Maul made his way to their designated starship and manually opened the hatch from the rear. Inside, the empty gallery was built for small cargo runs as there was barely any room to fit more than two, full-grown Hutts. Through the automatic door the lounge area brought to light the specifications for those who pilot the ship: two humanoids. There were two chairs, two quarters, and a Djark table (a game for two).  He went through two more automatic doors—past the airlocks—and into the cockpit. Maul took no time to start the engines and set the coordinates through hyperspace. Through the glass, he watched and waited for his living armament to complete her goodbyes.

-

Móni shook Qar-Tan’s hand followed by a reassuring pat on the other's shoulder.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

“As sure as ever,” Móni grimaced. “Take care of the kid.”

“Kid is bossy,” Qar-Tan laughed. “But he grew on us pretty fast.”

“It’s hard to hate on a kid who hangs with a sweet old lady,” she quipped back.

The iktotchi gave a half-hearted chuckle and released his grasp. There was nothing more to say. They were only teammates. Not friends.

Shysha didn’t care about boundaries between teammate and friend, and hugged the human. “Stay strong.” She glanced at the ship where the menacing zabrak climbed into. “I hope this arrangement is temporary. He doesn’t look very fun.”

“Who needs fun when I have Betts, and my jokes too boot,” Móni flashed a lopsided smile.

Shysha let out an airy laugh then whispered closer into Móni’s ear, “Zione mentioned him. He’s dangerous, Móni.”

“So am I,” was her final response before tearing away from the warm embrace.

Betts patted Kyp’s knee with her one good hand, then followed her master into the freighter.

Zione pattered to the furthest end of the dock and activated the switch to open the docking bay. A blue protective barrier turned on to cover the opening and halt space’s suction. He stared into the cockpit for one final look at Móni, but she was not there. The freighter flew out when there was just enough space for it to go through, then disappeared into hyperspace.

Móni sat in the gallery with her head buried in her knees. The soft thrum of hyperspace outside the starship was a sort of lull to her ears, and the vibrations on her back eased some of the stress. She did not care about the destination, her death, or her purpose. She knew the Force had some sort of influence over Maul, but if it hadn’t, she would be happily dead by now. What was interesting was how he twisted its orders into something of his own. ‘Use,’ he said. To him. She couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle. What a farce. She’s never been of use to anyone. She was a mistake, and that’s all she’ll ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: Solo: A Star Wars Story
> 
> So. Yeah, I'm kinda alive. Yes, I really enjoyed Solo. Barely any changes need to be made in my story. Even my own crime syndicate, the Crimson Veil, is similar to Crimson Dawn. Kind of weird... but works for me, I guess. The only issue is the timeline, but I think I'm okay. Leave comments or whatever. 
> 
> Peace.


	7. ACT II: The Phantom

The strum of hyperspace ceased along with the therapeutic vibrations. Móni lifted her face to softly bang it against the gallery’s wall. There was a lump in her throat she could not swallow, her lungs were tight behind her ribs, and her breaths shallow. There was a whirlwind of anguish and anger she had no way of releasing, and her eyes were as dry as the sands of Tatooine. Her hands pulled on her taut hair, releasing it from their restraint. Betts’ cool, metal hand could be felt through the fabric and onto the skin of her back. It was of no comfort and it was not what she wanted. She wanted to cry out everything she was feeling, but her body wouldn’t allow it. Screaming used to help, but not anymore. What she needed was—her nails dug deep into the skin of forearm, drawing out the pain she wanted, and blood. Her mind wandered to something sharp to press against her skin, until the automatic door slid open.

Her captor stepped forward in the same manner he did back in the Abolition: calm, poised, and refined with his hands behind his back. The zabrak was fiercer than the thing who referred to itself as “Second Brother”, and plenty more skilled. The only way Móni could keep him at bay—until Betts gave everyone their loot—was to use the Force, even when she would have rather let him pierce her heart. What he wants her for she could care less about. When the time she finds her motivation to escape, she’d leave him and all his Sith antics behind and start a new life again.

Maul skimmed the blood dripping down her arm with not even a blink of concern. “Your anger torments you. You fight it when you should let it flow through you. Let it consume you and you will be twice as powerful than you are now.”

“Save your Sith jargon for someone who cares.” Móni stood before him and found they were the same height; she had no choice but to make direct eye contact with him. She pitied how much hate the zabrak harnessed behind those tainted orbs. She considered what a radiant yellow they could have been if not for his use of the Dark Side of the Force. “I don’t believe in the ways of the Sith or Jedi. Neither of you understand the Force. You just use it to fight against each other like a bunch of children.” When she stepped around him her body swayed before she caught her balance. She hadn’t realized how heavy her eyes felt and how tired she was. Her body ached for a bed and a pillow to rest her head on.

“Who taught you how to use the Force?” He asked, clearly unconcerned about her fatigue.

Móni stopped and considered what to say. It’s obvious now he saw potential in her abilities and wanted to make use of her. She was not afraid of being used, only what the user would do to make her compliant; she was aware of how much of a pain she was—Betts made sure of that. Maul knew of those who were important to her; saw their faces even. He didn’t know their location, but she wouldn’t put it past him to find them. Although, she trusted Zione to hide everyone away as if they never existed. It was Palpatine who was the issue, and it didn’t seem like Maul was buddy-buddy with him given by his desperation to get off the Abolition. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? And he was a powerful one at that. But what would he gain by knowing? And what would she gain by telling him? A mess, really. She didn’t plan on staying with him long. Just enough time for Zione and the others to get their lives settled and submerged under the radar.

“You don’t need to know,” was her final answer.

There was a rise of irritation in him, but he did his best to control it. Móni found it strangely funny how annoyed he easily gets. He was going to have the time of his life with her around.

“One last thing,” he spoke with an obvious restraint in the back of his throat. “That mark on your chest. It was done by a lightsaber. But not my doing.”

She looked down on her sternum where the skin was black and red. “Forgot about that.”

Maul raised his brow. “A high tolerance to pain as well.”

Móni side eyed him a glare from the unnecessary analysis and continued, “Some guy who called himself ‘Second Brother’ attacked me.”

Maul brought a hand to his chin and rubbed it as he considered something. The faintest smile quirked the edge of his mouth. “Interesting.”

A raised eyebrow marked Móni’s subtle interest in his thoughts, but otherwise she was much too tired to care. “Can I go now?”

He dismissed her with a lazy wave of his hand.

After Móni left to find her quarters, Betts rolled beside Maul. “You know,” she started, so the zabrak would consider her. “You’re going to regret bringing her along. Nothing but trouble follows her around. And I mean big trouble.”

He hoped the droid meant what he was assuming, that the Empire… no, his former master was in search of her. Because that was exactly what he wanted. The woman was just as much a weapon as she was bait. Their meeting was fated and the Force was what brought them together. He was meant to bring the Empire to its knees.

-

Bundled under insulated sheets and on top of a hard mattress, Móni was under a deep, dreamless slumber. Accompanying her was Betts flashing a small yellow light to indicate her resting state. Light pooled onto her fetus form when the door slid open. A humanoid silhouette with horns stepped into the doorway.

Móni stirred and her brows furrowed with discomfort. It felt like someone was prodding into her mind, poking at memories and thoughts, but not actually invading. She sat up with a gasp and turned to the shadowed figure, with the usual poised stance, and gleaming yellow eyes.

“We are here,” he said.

Her burnt sternum was now a faded scar due to Betts’ remedies—she was able to find a basic medical kit before Móni collapsed into sleep. She, however, needed a shower. There were still oil stains marked on her body and she could feel a nasty second layer of skin from her dried sweat. Betts made a comment about her hair earlier, but Móni couldn’t give a damn about her appearance or what ‘here’ meant.

Without waiting for Maul in the gallery, she pressed a button to open the hatch and extend the ramp. Nature’s tranquil music of chirping insects and birds drifted along with a running brook. The breeze was cool, and carried the smell of greenery and dew after a night of rain. Móni couldn’t remember a time she felt at ease.

Betts rolled down past her and surveyed the landscape on her own to present a conclusive result for her master. “Definitely an upgrade from the Abolition. Jungle ecosystem.” She observed the sky overhead. “From the number of lightyears and parsecs I could record, we are still within the Outer Rim. South of the Core.”

Móni took in the sights herself. A clear blue sky encased canopies of giant trees with twisting barks and outstretched roots. There was plant life of various species in every direction; grown out of rich soil that have retained footprints of several beasts that have passed by in the past. The weather was high in humidity but the change in environment was exactly what she had been striving for to ease her frantic emotions. Only issue was…

Maul stepped off the ramp, his mechanical limbs whirring at every rise and fall. “This way, Apprentice.”

He pronounced her new title with strange possession and pride. It irked her to her very core and sent a shiver down her spine. “Don’t call me that, Former Apprentice,” she enunciated into a mock.

The Sith paused to regard her with a snarl. “What do you know?”

She raised her chin in defiance. “Enough,” she lied. Palpateen was the only Sith Lord the Force made her weary of, and she knew to some degree the concept of the Rule of Two: a master and an apprentice. No more, no less. Maul must have been cast aside to make room for someone twice as powerful.

His glare lingered on her a few more seconds before he continued forward.

On their short trek, Móni examined the bubbling brook they followed along; filled with moss covered rocks and jumping freshwater creatures. Her eyes gleamed at the prospect of new ingredients. She wondered if Maul would allow her time for recreational activities, unless he planned to lock her up in a cell like an animal. In which case, she would most certainly be planning an escape much faster than she anticipated.

They reached a small clearing with ruins of what used to be a large structure. Ancient designs were carved into the toppled pillars and withstanding doorframes that led to the interior of the building; only there were no walls to consider it as such anymore. There was an altar in the center with a broken figurine sitting crossed legged on top of it. Under the exposure of the elements, it had lost most of its form and detail, and overgrown with plants. The head was missing as well, but it did resemble a near-human.

“Move the altar,” Maul said behind her.

She turned to him with a half-eyed look. “Excuse me?”

He placed a hand on its weathered edge and spoke with a little more edge. “The altar. Move it. I won’t ask again.”

Móni crossed her arms over her chest. “Was my flinging you against the wall not enough show of force I have? I can do it again.”

The corner of Maul’s mouth bared a white tooth or two, but then composed his features. He stared directly into her eyes, through her forehead, past her current thoughts, and cracking through a blockade into her memories. An image of a field of red flowers within a forested area, illuminated by golden rays. Then the laughter of a child.

With every ounce of her being she pushed the intruder out of her thoughts and flung back at him without success. The result was an ache in her head as if she physically banged her head against a wall.

“Don’t do that again,” she spoke through gritted teeth. It wasn’t the invasion that upset her, it was her remembering that was painful.

“Don’t make me ask again.” Maul motioned his head to the altar.

She regarded the altar, then back at him. Wherever Móni was, she liked the planet and it sounded like a good place as any to lay low for as much as she needed to until things settled with the Second Brother and Empire. And she refused to sacrifice some peace for the sake of one zabrak’s ambitions.

“I can’t,” she finally said.

His anger boiling, Maul spoke with a tense jaw, “Why not?”

“The Emperor will sense where I am.”

Maul took a moment to let her statement sink in. He recalled the explosive use of the Force in the shockball arena. Frankly, it was enough to draw anyone who was Force sensitive. The atmosphere shook from her power; responded to it. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. When she battled him, she used it in powerful bursts. The woman had no control, or refused to be in control. The matter with his former master was a topic for another time.

“Focus on moving it. Not pushing.”

Her brows furrowed. “Pushing moves things.”

Betts snorted beside her, which she was rewarded with a slap against her metal head.

“Mm. Yes,” Maul paced across the platform. “The Force itself is powerful, therefore there’s no need to force it to be even more so. Our purpose is to harness and control it, to do what we want it to do.”

There was some truth with his teachings, but—as a Sith—his beliefs relied on domination; even of the Force in some sense. If her following orders meant a hot bath and food, then so be it. She closed her eyes and focused every part of her senses on the rectangular slab and the figurine on top of it. The slow concentration and precise focus made her twice as sensitive to the Force. There were faint whispers in her ears, each a different voice and a different language. It caressed her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and raised hairs.

 _Ignore it_. That’s all she had to do.

‘ ** _Listen_** ,’ several voices said at once. ‘ ** _Listen_**.’

_Ignore it. Ignore it._

_‘ **Hear us!** ’ _They shouted within her. So loud, she felt dizzy from the rattle in her brain.

Móni grasped the slab and screamed, “No!” And flung it several meters to the side, flipping it over, and crushing the figurine. “Are we done, yet?” She spat at the zabrak.

An invisible force grasped her neck and pinned her to the ground, face first. She coughed from inhaling dirt through her nose, which only made her inhale it from her mouth as well; making it that much harder to breath. Her whole body was immobilized and she was furious.

A pair of metal legs knelt before her, and a multi-colored arm rested upon a raised knee. “Now, then,” she could hear him smirk.

Móni focused on a hanging tree branch—caused from the altar she threw aside—and flung it toward the Sith. It stopped behind him, then crushed into pieces.

His hand took hold of the bundle of curls on top her head and raised it to make her look upon equally furious eyes. “One more time. And this time, do it right, Apprentice.”

Could she go up against him? Using every ounce of her being to fling him across the planet? What kind of disruption would that cause, she wondered. It could possibly lead the whole Empire to this location. Her fury was fizzing out. Her mind finding reason, rather than rage. No. Without a doubt, she could not allow the Emperor to find her. She was certain his manipulation would be ten times worse than Maul’s. And more painful.

Behind them, Betts’ blue circuits turned red and her one arm transformed into a blaster pointed at Maul.

“A battle droid,” Maul said as a matter of fact. He raised a hand toward her, “Disguised as a servant droid. Interesting.” His hand was ready to crush her, but paused when Móni called out.

“Stop!” All fear and anger dissipated from her. She didn’t know how or why, but she concentrated on mobilizing her mouth from his iron will. And in the very least, she couldn’t say she felt nothing. Her emotions were in control and they were screaming to protect. _Protect Betts_.

“I’ll do it again. I’ll do it right. I promise.”

After a moment of consideration, he released his hold on her. Her lungs were freed and she chastised herself for ever taking advantage of her ability to breathe freely. When she sat up, Betts composed herself into the meek, servant form.

“That wasted a lot of power. I’m tired,” Betts slumped.

“Tell me that when you actually blast someone.”

“Like you?”

“By all means. I won’t have to move rocks or deal with this guy anymore.”

Maul’s expression was stoic, withholding every ounce of his annoyance and letting it fester within.

Móni bit back a chuckle and put all her attention on the cursed rock. Everything was going right until the voices echoed in her skull. _Block it_. _Block it_! She could barely block Maul from invading her thoughts, how then could she stop the Force from doing so? There needed to be another way.

There was one…

She let herself go and allowed the Force to communicate with her. Its presence was nostalgic, for she would spend hours as a child learning from it and understanding it. Until she realized it was using her when she was mature enough to comprehend how it manipulated the lives of every being. Decided their fates. Like how it decided her mothers’.

It coursed throughout her body, from her head down to her toes, like water cascading through her veins. The sensation made her feel cold, but there was some comfort in its connection. It reminded her of her birth mother.

‘ ** _Listen_** ,' the voices were soft and nurturing. ‘ ** _Do not use us. Use what you have. What you are gifted with._** ’

A long exhale, like someone releasing their final breath, and its presence was gone. Use what was within her. Who she was. She did not know who she was, only that she was different and dangerous if Palpateen ever got his hands on her. She focused on her center and saw a well of power she had never noticed before. For the first time, she dipped a small part of herself and externalized it. She opened her eyes and pulled the altar towards her in one graceful motion until it rested in front of Maul.

Confusion laced his features as he stared at the woman. He felt nothing from the Force when she drew the slab in. Instead, the source came entirely from her. The sensation was somewhat erratic, but quiet nonetheless. Whoever the woman was, his master knew of her which meant she was important. He would have to discover for himself in time what that meant. Meanwhile, he would simply perfect her into the asset he was in desperate need of.

“Better,” he finally said before turning to the empty platform. A console was installed in the dead center of it, where the altar used to be. Maul punched in the code then stepped back to allow the camouflaged double doors slide open.

Móni stared at the staircase leading to a lift that could lead to his… base?

“I hope this means I can get a shower and some food,” she said as she promptly descended.

Betts went to Maul. “She only did as she was told because she hoped for a shower and grub.”

The two stared at one another; one waiting for the other to make a response. Betts continued.

“I’m not dealing with her when she gets angry. As you are now the new master, I leave all that to you. Good luck.”

That was the second warning the droid had given him. A small, singular, and insignificant part of himself was doubtful about what he decided to set himself with. If he could deal with Savage’s temper, then the woman should be no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded this on my B-day (6/8). Hope you enjoyed.


	8. The Chef

A fifteen-year-old Móni sat in the dark corner of her room. Vines and twisting tree barks shaped the walls, branches and leaves formed the flooring. At first glance the room appeared primitive, but the amenities it held were technologically sound for they were engineered by the finest mind: Zahri, her birth mother. The way the home was grown and shaped was only possible because of her ingenuity and skill with botany, engineering, and biology. If anything, she loved the concept of technology interweaving with nature, but respecting nature’s life.

Móni did not attain those abilities, but adopted the traits of her other mother, Kara. Her strength, courage, and poor mannerisms was what helped shape Móni into the woman she was. She gazed into a handheld hologram of a devaronian female with thick muscles and long, thick wavy hair. The blue light the figure emitted reflected onto the fresh tears streaming down from bloodshot eyes. Móni sniffled back mucus and wiped her face dry for the hundredth time that week, leaving a sensitive cheek red with overuse.

There was a soft rap at the door. A soft-spoken woman was heard on the other side. “Durmónia?”

Rather than responding Móni receded further into her corner and held the holocron of Kara closer to her chest.

Zahri, the woman Móni was a spitting image of, took a tentative step inside. Her black eyes searched for her daughter’s thin form in the far corner of the room, away from the comfort of her bed and window. She did not sport the head of messy curls like her daughter, and instead had it shaved close to her head with some remnants of curls.  

“Durmónia?” She tried again. She caught a glimpse of her wife in their daughter’s hands. Zahri swallowed her sob and took a deep breath to settle the pain thumping in her chest. “Why don’t we go out? Survey the forest.”

She waited a beat. Then continued. “The weather is pleasant today. Perfect day for hiking.” She forced any semblance of joy in her voice, but it made her sound more wounded.

Life gleamed in her eyes when her daughter’s head moved. But when it turned, her heart sank. Zahri had never seen her in so much pain before, and it was because she left her alone for so long so she could remedy her own grief. What kind of mother did that? She can’t even remember if she fed her. She was sure she did; out of habit.

“I’m scared,” Móni shuttered. “I’m scared I may kill you too.”

\--

A jab at Móni’s side jolted her awake. She was washed and dressed in fresh clothes (thank the stars). Her stomach, though, was filled with water and empty of nutrition. It seemed food was not an important concept for the Sith, as he allowed her to clean herself up but not raid his provisions. Instead, he had her wait in a conference room with a table fit for only four to five people and a holomap displaying the whole galaxy. Some planets were marked in red, others in green, and none of it interested her.

The layout of the hideout was expansive and old, yet only a fraction of it was being used; which meant his syndicate was small or growing. Móni didn’t pay much attention since her main concern upon entering was being given a room and bathing; she knew Betts took care of analyzing the area and formulating a map in her systems.

It had been several minutes since Betts prodded her awake and Móni was ready to lull back to sleep. The door slid open, awakening Móni upright in her seat. Two armored humans, geared from head to toe, strode into the room without so much as giving the unarmed human and droid a glance. Based on the T-shaped visors on their helmets and the jetpacks on their backs, Móni deduced they were Mandalorian… and were very far from home.

The armored woman selected a whole sector on the southernmost part of the galaxy, or the Outer Rim territories, and above it labeled: Sanbra Sector. Alongside it another sector was selected: Bon'nyuw-Luq. She removed her helmet and propped it on her hip to take a step back and admire the newly colored sectors. Her cropped black hair was matted with sweat and her gear singed with fresh black marks. They have just returned from a battle or small tussle.

“Things are going as planned,” the male beside her stated almost questionably.

The woman merely gave him a side-eyed glance before turning. Her sharp, black eyes bore through Móni’s, searching for a weakness in character and testing the limits of her hold. Móni stared back with hooded lids. She blinked slowly.

“Is there something on my face?”

“You the new pet?” The woman responded instantly.

“If you mean loyal, obedient, and does tricks? Then, no.”

The woman furrowed her black brows to that of concern and annoyance. The male beside her removed his helmet and sported a grin that set Móni on edge. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair to remove the strands from his long face and chuckled.

“This girl’s funny.”

“She’s trouble,” the woman glared.

Without giving his comrade’s words much thought, the male placed his helmet on the table. “I’m Gar Saxon. This here is Rook Kast. We’re members of an up and coming crime syndicate secretly run by Lord Maul, whom you’ve had the pleasure of meeting already.”

Ah. _Lord_ Maul. She wasn’t surprised, as he was a Sith and it was in his nature to dominate, but she also didn’t expect him to be leading a crime syndicate. From what she gathered of the well-mannered, murderous, angry zabrak, a crime lord was not what she imagined him being.

“Not much of a pleasure if you ask me.”

Móni expected a backlash from insulting their leader, but there was only a deep exhale through Rook’s nose and a chortle from Gar.

“Trust me. If you hate him now, you’re going to hate him even more. Welcome to the Crimson Veil.”

The name caused a stir in Móni. Every so often she would hear a word or two about the Crimson Veil from customers in the backwater restaurant she worked in at the Abolition. The syndicate gained enough attraction for even Zione to mention. No one knew who their leader was, but they’ve toppled smaller syndicates and left their mark by killing off the leaders and appointing new ones. The Crimson Veil’s method, Zione explained, was puppeteering these groups from the shadows. Their purpose, however, alluded him as well to everyone else, which was why they were considered one of the most dangerous syndicates.

And Móni became a part of it.

But she couldn’t concern herself with the prospect then for she had bigger things to worry about. “Great. Where can I get some food?”

-

Their mess hall was well maintained and empty. Móni began to wonder if these two and Maul were the only members of the Crimson Veil, since she hadn’t heard or felt another living thing within the compound.

Gar motioned for her to take a seat at the sheer metallic table while he went back to the kitchens. Rook sat across from her and leaned in on her forearm on top of the table, taking in the woman before her even more.

Slightly annoyed from the lack of food, poor sleep (thanks to Maul prodding her mind), and utilizing the Force in an innovative way, Móni decided to be blunt with the Mandalorian. “Is there something you want to ask?”

“I can ask the same about you. You seem to be taking this hostage situation extremely well and haven’t asked us a single thing.”

“How do you know I didn’t join willingly?”

At this Rook narrowed her eyes. “Did Lord Maul promise you something?”

Móni scoffed. “I don’t think so. Even if he did I doubt he’s likely to keep it.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because I know what he’s capable of.”

“You want what he has? Power?”

With a disinterested sigh, Móni swiped away a dust particle on the table. “No.”

“Money?”

There was a singular crumb of food which Móni lifted with her pointer finger. She scrutinized what it could be from and the kind of food they ate there. “No.”

“Do you know what you want?”

She flicked the crumb right at the center of Rook’s forehead. The woman didn’t flinch from the small stunt.

“No.”

That was what peaked the warrior’s anger. “This isn’t some charity organization. We have a mission. We have a goal. And that is to see through Lord Maul’s vision. You better find your purpose here with us soon, because I will kill you if I sense any disloyalty or betrayal.”

Móni raised her eyebrows from a sudden realization. “You’re upset he trusted me too easily.”

“Obviously. He shouldn’t have shown you our base of operations so soon.”

“He wants me to be his apprentice.”

The shock that coursed through the woman’s expression meant she hadn’t heard or expected the information. Before she could ask anything else, Gar came in with three trays.

“Excuse the quality. It’s mostly rations since our cook is out for the moment. I can promise the tea is good. It’s Mandalorian.”

On the tray there were two protein bars, a slop of green gelatin, and a piece of bread. When Móni pressed her finger onto the bread, not a dent was made. She took a whiff of the steaming tea and smelled a sweet, floral aroma.

“Cassius tea?”

Rook arched an eyebrow, semi-impressed. Gar however was ecstatic. “Yeah! I’m surprised you know it. Not exactly an easy thing to come by nowadays.”

“I’ve had my experience with food and drink before the war.”

“Really?” Intrigued, Gar was ready to launch a series of questions before Rook cleared her throat. His fascination lost in an instant, he returned to the topic at hand. “Right. So. What skills do you possess?”

After bitten half of the tasteless protein bar, Móni chewed her food and swallowed before answering. Rook waited patiently with her arms crossed over chest; not acknowledging the food before her. Gar played around with the glop with his spoon before slipping a tiny piece into his mouth.

“I’m a cook.”

With his head still bowed before his rations, Gar raised his eyebrows at her. “I doubt Lord Maul brought you here because of your cooking skills. Although, we really do need a new one,” he mumbled the last bit to himself.

“She’s his apprentice,” Rook said with an edge to her voice.

Gar coughed on the dusty protein bar he bit into and took a sip of his tea to help swallow it down. “Apprentice? You’re a Sith?”

“No.”

“Jedi?” Rook asked.

“No.”

What little humor Gar forced himself to show, was already wearing thin. A common trait Móni tends to take out of people. “Can you use the Force?”

“Sure. Makes cooking a whole lot easier.”

Rook stood abruptly. “There’s no way we can use her. Maul is demented if he thinks she could do anything.”

Móni took a sip of her tea and licked her lips from the natural sweetness the Cassius flower produced. “ _Lord_ Maul,” she corrected with mockery.

Silence weighed down on Móni and the Mandalorian warriors. From it a sort of understanding blossomed between them; the woman with the rowdy brown curls and poor manners could never be one of them: someone with honor and a sense of duty. However, as Maul’s apprentice she was untouchable. They didn’t need to like each other, only tolerate one another and their boundaries.

“Right,” Rook spun around and exited the mess hall.

Gar dragged a hand over his worn face. Móni knew she wasn’t making things any easier on them after they had just returned from some sort of assignment. But she was just as worn and drained as they were, so they could save their nosy inquiries for another time; even if it was at the behest of their leader.

“We’ll continue this tomorrow, yeah?” he took his quarter eaten tray with him as he followed Rook out.

“I thought they would never leave,” Betts commented.

“Oh. So, you can talk now?” Móni emptied the tray into the dispenser shoot.

“Did you really want me to?”

“Could have helped out in making the conversation more awkward.”

Betts took some time to consider. “You’re right. Could have mentioned my missing arm.”

“Agh. Sorry, Betts. Promise I won’t forget next time.” Móni smirked and took another sip of her tea. “Let’s raid the kitchen.”

 

It was a disaster. Everywhere Móni turned there was filth, most especially in the hard to reach corners. The walls had a brown sheen to them from who knows how many months of grease sprayed onto it. All the wares were half washed and caked with burnt oil. And the floor was littered with crumbs and strands of fallen food.

“Haven’t they heard of cleaning droids?” Betts lifted a brown rag which may had been white once upon a time.

“I wasn’t expecting much, but this certainly surpassed my expectations.” Móni gathered her thick curls and tied it. “Time to get to work.”

-

Betts rolled over beside Móni and admired their handiwork with her. A battered mouse droid was cleaning up any remains they may had missed off the gray floor. And a larger, more robust cleaning droid rolled beside its smaller counterpart, but was finishing off the walls and ceiling with its extended hose and brushes. Both were discovered underneath a heap of rags in a discreet corner. Betts had the honor of repairing them as Móni saw to the culinary tools and freed them of stains. Lastly, the counters gleamed silver and her reflection could be seen.

More than content with the spacious kitchen and surprisingly high-quality instruments, Móni’s freedom was miniscule if it meant her having the chance to cook every day. In the dry storeroom, there were metal crates packed to the ceiling with non-perishable goods, and many Móni recognized with sparkles in her eyes. The walk-in fridge held meats from various species across the galaxy, along with fruits, vegetables, and dairy. She and Betts checked the items for any damages, and they all seemed to be well managed; unlike the kitchen.

“Interesting,” Móni hummed.

“I haven’t seen you this happy since you discovered shockball,” Betts began loading an empty crate with ingredients from a recipe she randomly selected from memory.

A grin was plastered on her face while she went through the endless array of rare items at her very finger tips. A small laugh escaped as she was unable to contain her joy any longer.

 

Free to use the Force, since she understood to some extent how to control it, cooking was in fact a whole lot easier with it. Recalling objects from a distance without moving from the stove was a dream. In a pot was a roba steak bourguignon bubbling to perfection and emitting a savory aroma from the vegetables and spices mixed into it. Cooking on another whirlpool was ghoba rice mixed with spice made from stigmas and styles of a saffiri flower. Betts checked a rising bread in the oven and lowered the heat.

While Móni put a spoonful of the soft roba steak in her mouth to taste, there was chatter of people outside and down the hall. As the group drew closer their voices became more boisterous and clear. The most repeated words Móni could catch were: “annoying”, “blaster”, “injured”, and “tired”.

She set the spoon down and stared at the kitchen’s double sliding doors. The group was just outside the mess hall and sounded around to be 20 or more persons with armor and/or weapons.

Betts examined the food meant to feed at least four people. “Huh.”

“I wasn’t expecting to feed a whole battalion,” Móni countered, sensing Betts’ judgment.

“Or anyone at all.”

The Crimson Veil entered the mess hall causing a raucous with their incessant chatter and disarming themselves of their weapons onto the tables. Móni listened in on some of the more pronounced voices.

“What’s Cook going to make for us today?”

“Slop with slop and a side of slop.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Uh. Guys.”

“Hey! Don’t take your shoes off in here. That’s disgusting.”

“There’s been a pebble stuck in my shoe the entire time we were fighting those bloody Galgardi’s. I’m getting it out now.”

“Where the blazes is Cook at?”

“What’s his real name anyways?”

“Excuse me. Guys...”

“What’s that smell? Actually smells good.”

“Is he in the kitchen already?”

“Everyone, please listen.”

“Quiet. Avin has something to say. Learn to speak up, kid.”

“I’m 25.”

“Who cares? What is it?”

“Stoma’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Stoma… The cook.”

“That’s his name!”

“Oh… That’s unfortunate. Guess it’s rations for tonight.”

“Wait. Then who’s cooking?”

The mess hall went into a dead silence. Móni felt their eyes on the door while she stood motionless like a mouse trapped in a corner. Meeting the Crimson Veil would have been inevitable, but she would have rather met them when she was fed and well rested. Seemed she had no choice in the matter. Not that the Force cared much for her physical wellbeing in the first place anyhow.

Once the double doors slid open, Móni gawked back at the ragtag team of male and females of several species. Some were Mandalorian, others carried the airs of an experienced bounty hunter, and the rest had hard expressions on their blood-sweat faces. A blonde man, with the face of someone who appeared several ages younger than his actual age, slipped through the stunned crowd. His Mandalorian armor was scratched and scorched like his counterparts, unlike his pristine blaster; it looked as if it had never been used.

His cerulean eyes surveyed the cleaned kitchen, repaired droids, the unknown droid with a missing arm, and finally on the brown skinned woman with orange eyes.

“Who are you?”

Móni glanced back at her meal before returning her gaze to the young man. “I’m the new cook.”


	9. Jump

Prepping for a larger crowd was easy—since there was an endless supply of goods in stock and time was hardly an issue—for Móni was an accomplished chef with a capable droid as a sous chef. The crime syndicate’s obvious indifference with a new person in their kitchen hardly affected her; it made things simple without the questions and scrutiny. It could just be they were too tired and hungry to care, and eager to eat real food over rations after an arduous journey. No one bothered to socialize with her either. Most ate and left, some ate and drank, and others ate, drank, and chattered amongst themselves. Their consistent shoveling of spoonsful in their mouths without a moment to breathe was a sure sign the food was to their liking, and that prospect delighted Móni. And Betts was over the moon about their meticulous cleaning habits—everyone cleared their dishes and placed them in the revolving dishwasher which the cleaning droid managed. She didn’t even care about not being thanked for prepping such a glorious meal. What was bothering her was their intimacy. A group of scoundrels with checkered pasts were civilized with one another; there was not even a slight indication of a fight breaking out.

She was jealous. And she knew it. A part of her wanted to be scrutinized, questioned, and be in the conversation. Móni usually gave off airs as not a social creature to disassociate herself from the common crowd. She was afraid of herself, and therefore couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting anyone else by accident. She was an extrovert who lived off the energy of people. It was why she loved shockball. The joy, the willpower, the ego, everyone who played exhumed was what drove her to meet the public eye rather than withdraw from it. She felt alive.

When the enquiries for seconds or thirds slowed, Móni and Betts commanded the cleaning droids to help shut down the kitchen. That was when the young Mandalorian warrior entered.

“Hello,” he spoke without stepping away from the door after it had closed behind him.

Móni quirked an eyebrow, but offered some of her kindness. “Hey, yourself.”

“I’m Avin Jor.”

“Durmónia. Móni is fine, though.”

For whatever reason, he seemed intimidated by her presence. She couldn’t fathom why after she had made the most delectable meal they’ve probably ever had in standard months. And no one was poisoned.

“What do you usually do around here?” she asked, obviously needing to broker the silence.

“Compartmentalize the stolen goods,” was his swift response.

Expecting to hear more of his duties, Móni edged a bit away from the counter she was leaning against. Nothing more came out of him. “So, you’re the one who kept the foodstuff maintained. I was confused for a second, because the kitchen was a hell hole.”

“Stoma didn’t like people in his kitchen. And he hated the cleaning droids. Said they got in his way. Pity he’s dead. He was a semi-good demolitionist.”

“Your friends don’t exactly share the sentiment, I assume.”

Avin lowered his gaze for a moment. Mixed emotions swirled behind his innocent eyes, and Móni could feel the slight confusion emitting from him. The term “friends” probably didn’t fit the description of his relation to the Crimson Veil. When he returned to her, decisiveness finally made its way through.

“Who exactly are you?”

“I just joined today. Met with your bosses too. They don’t like me very much, I think. Can’t be helped, though.”

“You’ve already met General Kast and Lieutenant Saxon?”

“And _Lord_ Maul.”

His blue eyes turned the size of a mon calamari’s. “What? He was here?”

“Isn’t this his crime syndicate?”

“Well, yes. But…,” he trailed off. His facial movement noted he was switching tactics and decided on a new set of questions. “Was General Kast the one who selected you, or him?”

“Him,” Móni crossed her arms over her chest and regarded Avin with some curiosity. He did not like Maul at all. And neither did she.

As if taking everything in, he studied the pristine kitchen, the droid with a missing arm, the lean woman who looked as if she could hold herself in a fight and win. He came to a personal conclusion and eased his tension. His beskar and durasteel armor made no noise as he stepped toward the mystery woman with an outstretched arm. “I’m sure the General and Lieutenant received you already, but welcome to the Crimson Veil.”

Without hesitation she took his gloved hand into hers, feeling the cool metal gauntlet on the tips of her fingers. “Your reception is a whole lot better than theirs, so thanks, Kid,” she grinned.

“I’m 25,” he deadpanned.

“I bet.”

“Ugh,” he turned to the dry storage to start on his allotted duty. “You can send your droid to maintenance just down the corridor. Our repair droids will have it fixed in no time.”

“Oh good,” Betts chimed in her sardonic tone. “I’m glad someone is looking out for me.”

 

Betts repaired her arm herself for no one understood her structure better than she, not even her overbearing owner (who knew little about engineering). The repair droids followed Betts’ commands without complaint and provided everything she needed to finally have a working limb. In the meantime, the only organic in the room found a clunky manifest listing shipment reports for everything gathered in that very room. Coils, turbines, dampers, processors and modules, circuits, valves, and other tedious parts—they were all categorized in sections: weapons, armor, cybernetics, communications, shields, and ships. The most exhaustive section were the cybernetics, most likely for Maul’s mechanical half. Scrolling through, she delved further into detailed descriptions of the planets they came from and where they’ve been shipped to. All have been taken to various locations in the southern-most part of the Outer Rim; Móni recalled the galaxy map in the conference room. However, they’ve all been picked up and taken to one planet: D’Qar.

She tapped her cheek. “D’Qar.”

“That’s where we are,” Betts finished with the final tune ups on her arm. She extended and retracted it to test its repair. “Thought you weren’t interested.”

“Not now anyways. What do you know about it?”

“Not a single sentient thing lives here except for us. No one knows who created these ruins or why they left. Must have been a good reason to leave an eco-friendly planet.”

Móni set down the manifest. Her body was lethargic and her eyes were barely able to keep themselves open. A long yawn escaped her. “Are you almost done?”

“I think I’m going to stay here a while. Familiarize myself with the area.”

Too tired to give an affirmative response, Móni went straight for the automatic door.

The corridors were wide with high ceilings, and light, durable alloy covered the tunneled walls. The place was well lit and it reflected off the alloy to give the place a soft blue ambiance. Her steps didn’t echo as corridors usually did, but rather the flooring absorbed the impact. It was white stone, sanded, and polished smooth—one would argue it was Durosian marble, an expensive material usually found in the Core worlds, but the ripple of whites to grays said otherwise. Whoever inhabited the planet were excellent masons. The question was, were the technologically advanced parts installed by the original residents who built the primitive structures aboveground, or were there others who came after and before the Crimson Veil? Móni would save the question for Betts on another day.

She shuffled to the room where Maul led her on her first arrival; imaginings of beds and pillows ransacked her thoughts as well as a dreamless slumber.

“Where are you going?”

Móni was about ready to fall asleep on that very spot, but she regarded Avin instead. “To my room.”

He blinked at her several times and tilted his head to another direction. “Our quarters are this way.”

Not quite registering his words, Móni nodded her head and continued to her destination.

“That area is off limits.”

“Says who?”

“No one. But it’s where Maul’s quarters are,” Avin said with repressed scorn.

“And?”

Somewhat thrown off from the simple question, he sought for a reply. “And he’s our leader.”

Móni looked back to where her and, apparently, Maul’s quarters were. She doubted the Sith set their rooms side by side, but most likely kept her confined in his proximity to keep tabs on her; which meant he had his suspicions. Her thoughts may had been slowed and jumbled with fatigue, but she still had half a mind not to mention the psychopath’s intentions. It would only cause complications and too much explanation when all she wanted was a decent shut-eye.

“If you don’t see me tomorrow, I was Force choked in my sleep. Night.”

And just like that, she left the dumbfounded man-boy behind.

-

And a dreamless slumber she got. Móni couldn’t remember a time she slept so deeply. Coupled with her body’s exhaustion, the Abolition’s ventilation systems were usually broken, so sleeping in the heat was common; whereas the base was cool and emitted fresh, hygienic air.

An image emerged from the dark crevices of her mind: an enormous beast with tusks and feline movements. Its feral eyes were as dark as space and were focused solely on Móni. The arching of its back, whipping tail, and crouched position meant it was ready to pounce and take her in its jaws. Fear ran cold throughout her paralyzed body. Two voices told her to run, but the deafening pounds of her heart quieted their calls, leaving her alone with the beast before her.

It leapt. Claws out and mouth agape, it was ready to take its prize. But the red shoulder blades of a muscled humanoid with hair that reached her lower back blocked the horror coming after Móni. The devaronian held an alloyed spear out before her, then there was blood. Blue mixed with green on the forest floor. The beast arose victorious with the devaronian’s arm in its mouth. It stared back at Móni with a mocking glint, and she could have sworn the edges of its mouth quirked a smirk.

Another image came to view. The beast was no longer whole, rather it’s body was split apart into pieces; its guts hung on branches, skin and bones littered across the grounds, and green blood flung meters away. Móni huffed deeply, her orange eyes as feral as the beast she had killed.

In an instant Móni sprung out of bed and used the force on an object closest to her to fling at the zabrak standing in the doorway. With a simple wave of his hand, the lamp shifted to the wall beside him and shattered.

“Come, Apprentice.”

Móni stared back with defiance and returned to her bed, cocooning herself in the sheets.

Not a moment later an invisible force grabbed her ankle, slid her off the bed, and dragged her across the floor. She would have collided with the wall if she hadn’t moved the night table across the room and toward Maul. He released his hold on her to bypass the table and return it right to her.

A part of her recalled how the beast was torn apart. The process eluded her since the memory was blacked out in her fit of hysteria, but the motions were there. Like she learned with the slab of stone the day before, she recalled a small piece within herself and tore the table apart in one screeching second. Then she went for the kill. Móni attempted another attack at the Sith’s mind and ruptured his barriers. A flash of boiling lava, molten rocks, and steam pervaded her vision. Through a small window into the outside world reflected a child with big, bright yellow eyes and a crown of peeking horns.

That was all she saw before she was shut out with a storm of rage.

Maul threw a murderous glare at her before calming his externalized anger and holding it all within. He did not expect her to skip his recent memories and strike the ones he recessed long ago. She had to put all she had in order break him, which was how she pushed so far into his mind. But if he had been a non-Force wielder he would have been turned into a vegetable. He wondered if she knew that. If not, she would find out soon enough.

“Are you finished?” He asked through gritted teeth. He couldn’t deny she learned things quickly; in just a matter of months she would be sculpted into the very thing he sought. It was all a matter of her cooperation. She’s led an independent life for many years, and breaking that livelihood was not going to be an easy feat. The woman also made things twice as complicated he believed, with great indignation, on purpose.

“Depends. Can I have breakfast first?”

He didn’t bother to acknowledge the question and turned away, knowing full well she would follow.

And she did. Not only out of curiosity, but to avoid the full extent of his wrath.

 

Móni followed Maul to a lift where they were transported to the surface. The ground split open before the glass casing dropped and only the platform and themselves were standing in an unfamiliar location. They were in a clearing of tall grass and large stones with a herd of herbivores feeding off the plant life. Above, bird-like creatures soared across a pure blue expanse with not a trace of clouds. She watched a small reptile sunbathe on a rock and wanted to do the same; definitely not whatever the zabrak’s itinerary was.

Maul turned away from the tranquil scene and into the jungle. With a longing heart, Móni followed suite.

The part of the jungle they were at was denser than the area they landed on the day before. They had to climb over massive roots and pushed apart blades of leaves longer than Móni’s height. Maul took care of creating a path for them without the use of his lightsaber—in certain not to leave a path of singed plant life behind. As for the climbing, Móni was the only one who partook in the strenuous activity, while her “master” Forced jumped over most of the obstacles. She usually had Betts assist with the hard to reach places and never attempted to practice the high jumps; there had been too many poor past experiences for her to attempt it again.

That was until they reached a mountainous blockade of stone that stretched for miles and could only be surpassed with climbing.

“Perfect,” Móni muttered under her breath.

The Sith began his jumping as if he were floating on air. With perfect deftness he caught ledges and balanced on protruding stones to reach the top in mere seconds. He towered over Móni with his usual poised posture.

Móni rubbed some dirt into her hands and began to climb.

“Jump,” he said from above.

“No, thanks,” was the flat response.

He allowed her to make it half way before a booming Force tossed her back to the start with a hard thud. She sat up on her elbows to peer at the looming zabrak. With a huff she climbed again. The Force vibrated around her from an incoming projectile and she swung to the side, hanging on with one hand. A rock the size of a Hutt’s head fell past her and struck the ground. Fear or surprise would have been a normal response to almost anyone being crushed by a beaming rock. However, it only fueled her competitiveness. She was determined to make it to the top without jumping and make a victorious smirk at his scowling face. Thus, she continued with a wide grin, which she felt agitated the “master”.

Sharp branches. Jagged rocks. Even animals he mind-controlled to perceive her as an enemy were thrown her way. The animals were simple to veer off with her use of the Force, it was blockading his Force strikes that fatigued her. She couldn’t see the attacking Force per se, more like a vague mirage or distortion in her vision of a great mass coming her way. There was also the _gift_ as her mothers described it; a gift greater than an average Force wielder. A gift she had yet to grasp any understanding of.

Maul’s Force strikes gained more momentum the closer she reached the top, and each time she alternated her arms to veer it in another direction. Dust stuck to the sweat glossing her skin and her arms burned from the strain of doing multiple things at once. The jungle’s humidity mixed with the heat made it hard to breathe and her fingers were turning raw from the rough rocks; some had begun to bleed. And she was enjoying herself. She will reach the top and shove it in the zabrak’s face who’s the master of who.

Climbing onto the ledge would prove to be the most difficult part—she was sure he would try his hardest to keep her away—in which case Móni decided to showcase a bit of her _gift_. Her feet found a crevice for her to be able to balance on without the support of her arms. She put her hands together to form a fist, swung it back, then with every bit of strength she had reserved brought it upon the stonewall to cause a massive disruption. It shook violently making loose rock fall and forced hidden creatures to crawl out from their homes in a panic. Maul took a step back to catch his balance and in that moment, she jumped onto the ledge and swung her legs over onto solid ground.

Móni rolled onto her back and released a tired laugh. She opened her eyes to an upside-down view of an infuriated Sith _Lord_ which only made her laugh even more.

“I haven’t had a good laugh in a long time.”

His twitching upper lip curled back to show white teeth and his brows furrowed so low she thought the zabrak was going to combust with rage.

“No need to get so angry. I did jump.”

The fury pulsating the air and swirling around her was palpable. That time around, Maul did nothing to center his anger and let it flow freely for Móni to feel. It did not bother nor intimidate her; only made her more curious with the repercussions of her casual approach to the supposed lesson. To her surprise, her master went straight to the source of the matter.

“Why?” Maul asked the one-word question as if it weighed a thousand planets: forced and unfamiliar.

Of course, Móni could not ignore his discomfort. “Why is only one of your ears pierced and not both?”

There was a pause, and for a moment Móni could have sworn he considered answering her. Instead, he continued as if he hadn’t heard:

“Why do you fear jumping?”

Móni turned to him; a small smile playing on her dust infested features. Maul’s expression was not as taut as before, but neither had it relaxed. She knew he sensed her anxiety when he first asked her to jump, for she made no effort to mask it. Force jumps was on the top of her list for most hated things to do.

She looked up at the sky as she answered—past the blue ceiling and into the black void of space. “I’m afraid I will never come back down.”

Funny. As much as she considered relinquishing her life, she could not allow herself to disappear.

 

Despite having no energy, Maul was impressed with her endurance to keep pace with him as they ventured further into the jungle. The stunt she pulled against the stone wall was what depleted her reserves and became a mere walking sack of flesh—precisely what he aimed for, though he anticipated the process to take longer. The sudden spike of fear when he asked her to Force jump was fascinating to say the least. It did not stem from any sort of acrophobia, but of something quite the opposite: the fear of disappearing into the beyond. What caused the absurd fear he couldn’t understand, and he would have to reach the source if he ever wanted her to accomplish the feat.

Cooperation, again, was the other matter. Her incessant jokes were aggravating and it reminded him too much of a long-standing enemy—a Jedi he loathed more than his former master. Only with her, she enjoyed getting a rile out of him, and the very notion made it twice as aggravating. He considered his master’s teachings; how he would have broken and forced her to become a tamed tool. A part of Maul believed even Darth Sidious would get a headache from the woman’s antics. She complied, but not without a fight. She listened, but not without asking ridiculous questions. She was powerful and strong willed, both perfect and nightmarish qualities for an apprentice. Her strength could rival his own, and as he improved her skills, she would be twice as difficult to control. Her show of Force in her quarters, when she tore apart the table with ease, was a testament to that. And because of her value for independence, she did not view herself as an apprentice or him a master. The woman was however, not stupid. She respected Maul’s skills and power, which was his only saving grace from more of her impunities.

He was aware of her reason for not escaping, yet: her loved ones. Since she was conscious of his influence of various crime syndicates, she knew his intelligence network was that more vast. Finding an amani with a half theelin child in a wheelchair did not sound too difficult of a characteristic to find. If they intended to stay away from the Empire, then their location would still be within the Outer Rim. He wondered how she would take a threat. Would she lash out? Cause the whole planet to quake? There was more to her abilities he was sure even she did not understand. To avoid the Emperor’s attention to the planet, it was best to keep those powers in check.

In the end, Maul resorted to a different tactic: showing interest. Manipulation was his unfailing method that produced the best results in terms of drawing out the demons within someone. He only needed to plant seeds of doubt to form insecurities, and through them fear and anger would grow and expand so they would react in ways he saw fit to his designs. The human didn’t allow herself to be manipulated, however. Whomever taught her the ways of the Force, was neither Jedi nor Sith and programmed her mind to reject any outside influences. Therefore, he attempted at something simple. “Humane” as one would call it. And the result was just as simple. He remembered her droid’s words after she moved the stone slab: she only did as she was told for food and a bath. There were ways to appease the woman, but they were methods he was not accustomed to.

It didn’t matter. He was raised to adapt to any situation. As his master’s former assassin and fulfilling many covert missions where the need to blend into his surroundings were required, this should be treated no differently. He will acclimate. He will perfect his weapon. He will dethrone the Emperor. Everything will go as he planned. And nothing will stop him. Not even the woman.

 

Móni’s feet ached and her arms felt like the jiggling glop Gar Saxon served a standard night before. She was ready to call it a day until Maul finally stopped.

In the distance were three speeder bikes and three Mandalorians: Rook Kast, Gar Saxon, and Avin Jor. Maul turned to her with a sardonic smirk. “For three standard weeks you will be stranded in the deepest part of D’Qar where the most dangerous of creatures lurk in night and day. You will have no weapons. No droid. Only the Force.”

He tilted his head toward his crew and they pushed Avin forward. Móni could not read the blonde’s thoughts, but she noticed he was a few shades lighter from his average alabaster tone. “This one is strapped with hidden detonators in his armor. If you use anything other than the Force, a limb or two will come off. But do not worry. I will give you one warning before you send him to his death. Also, it would be best to not draw the Empire’s attention, so try to keep you powers in check. Otherwise, the man will die in an instant. Am I clear?”

Shocked by the sudden turn of events, Móni could barely process the information much less give a nod of affirmation. And Maul reveled in it. He finally gained the upper hand.

“Good,” he said on a borderline chipper note.

He paced away to the speeder bikes and sped away with Rook and Gar.

Avin and Móni stood in silence amongst the jungle’s buzzing insects, chirping birds, and rustling leaves.

Móni inhaled. “What?!”


End file.
